


The Wireless

by almaasi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Radio, Angel Wings, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Carnival, Castiel in Makeup, Coming Out, Dcbb 2017, Dean Winchester's First Time With a Man, Dean in Makeup, Fallen Angel Castiel, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Global Warming, Hunter Dean, Hunter Sam, Illustrated, Journalist Castiel, Kissing Booths, Long Distance Relationship, M/M, Psychic Castiel, Radio Host Castiel, Romance, Sea Monsters, Smart Dean, Solarpunk, Tattooed Castiel, Team Free Will, Tent Sex, Writer Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-15 21:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 58,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12329541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almaasi/pseuds/almaasi
Summary: Cas Novak hosts a popular radio show, entertaining hunters with his psychic powers. But, in a world where monster-hunting is commonplace, he harbours a powerful secret: he’s not human, but an angel, surviving in a society unsympathetic to his kind.For six years, Cas has read out news stories describing a particularly impressive man: Dean Winchester, distinguished hunter and accidental prophet of God. Not by chance, Cas meets Dean at a sunny autumn carnival, where Dean’s taken a job at a kissing booth. One kiss - perhaps two - and they’re already old friends, sharing fairground food, a carousel ride, another kiss on the ferris wheel...Finally, safe in the tent Dean shares with his brother, Castiel feels comfortable enough to reveal those unknown pieces of himself. But come morning, bigger events separate the trio: an ancient beast is waking up, and a fearful world desperately needs to be united. Now Castiel has a reason to confess his true nature, broadcasting live on Hunter Radio. Of course, Dean is listening. And it’s only a matter of time before he replies.





	1. October Carnival

**Author's Note:**

> My heart harbours a great love and gratitude for my betas: [Libby](http://cersei-the-truth-bombardier.tumblr.com/), [Andrea](http://selfihateyouithink.tumblr.com/), and my sister [Amara](https://sweetdreamspootypie.tumblr.com/), all as generous, steadfast and well-informed as ever. This story would not be sparkling so sweetly without your guidance. Thank you.  
> And, of course, a shower of glitter and a round of applause to my DCBB artist, [Vee](https://supernaturalgiggity.tumblr.com/), who made this journey both exciting and easy for me. ♥ (Dear readers, please check out the **[art masterpost](https://veegiggityillustrations.tumblr.com/post/166264716480/art-masterpost-for-the-wireless-by-almaasi)**!! Let Vee know your kind thoughts.)  
>  Now, roll up, friends - roll up! Let me tell you a story...
> 
>  **Warnings:** Mentions of ongoing war; past war injuries purposely inflicted using fire. Very minor background character deaths. Past Dean/women; Cas is a virgin and has never had any interest in kissing anyone before Dean. Dean unknowingly misgenders Cas as a man until he finds out he’s a nonbinary angel. Explicit sex scenes - frotting, switch!Dean and switch!Cas ([see here for details](http://almaasi.tumblr.com/post/166312896460/i-really-really-wanna-read-your-new-dcbb-fic-i)). Includes a subplot about global warming (mentions of hurricanes/flooding/earthquakes and their after-effects); pro-choice commentary surrounding the breeding rights of a sea monster. (Several mentions of tentacles, no actual tentacles - the monster is like a Chinese dragon.) Features Cas’ live radio commentary during a tsunami warning, which is kind of scary. Potential second-hand embarrassment (Cas talking about Dean on the radio).

Imagine that you could change everything.

Say you were offered a choice. You could either end the world, extinguishing the consciousness of every human, animal, monster, and spirit that resides upon the Earth. Heaven’s angels and Hell’s demons would all go too. Endless nothing, forever. The universe returns to the empty void, the way it began. The ultimate peace would be achieved.

Or, you could choose to let the world rage on. War drags out. Suffering continues. The planet is slowly consumed by irreversible changes. Every day, thousands lose their lives and their loved ones are left mourning. Perhaps peace is visible, far in the distance. But it must be worked for. _Fought_ for – as ironic as that is. Yet life and consciousness go on. Some days, joy can be experienced.

Six years ago, in 2021, a twenty-one-year-old Dean Winchester met God, stripped naked on a mountain in Nepal. And he was offered this very choice.

He chose the latter. It seemed obvious to him.

He didn’t realise his choice would induce world catastrophe; portals opened over Nebraska, and over the Atlantic Ocean, not too far from land, spewing demons and angels in fireballs towards the Earth. World war broke out against them, adding to the human-human wars, the human-monster wars, and all the smaller wars that individual people fought with themselves every day.

With the obvious addition of supernatural creatures to the world’s population, monster-hunting became a fashionable occupation. Millions took it upon themselves to rid the planet of God’s holy terrors.

The death toll was monumental, on all sides. Yet Dean Winchester was revered as a hero, mostly – hailed as a new prophet for the third millennium. He’d saved the world, after all. Without him, everyone could have perished in an instant.

After six years, the world was much smaller. That is, in the literal sense: as the effects of global warming overwhelmed the Earth, the sea level rose to reclaim miles of every coastline. Warmer oceans resulted in more storms, and a quarter of the planet became uninhabitable for half the year – too hot, too cold, battered by hurricanes, destroyed by earthquakes, engulfed by floodwater. Devastation moved with the seasons, and the phases of the moon. Bees were close to extinction, thus Earth’s naturally-pollinated food supply was greatly depleted.

Monsters were few, but hunters were many. Angels went unseen, disguised as humans to stay safe. Demons, the same.

In general, the war was fading, but battles still sprang up every few weeks. The concept of peace felt laughably distant to most people.

Dean never spoke of the inciting incident. Call it shame, regret, guilt; call it modesty. He claimed he had fair reasoning for his silence. He was no hero, he was merely a hunter. For as life went on, so did his objective. Saving people. Hunting things. That was his business.

· · · ★ · · ·

Snuff out a dying candle. Or let it burn away?

Which would you choose?

· · · ★ · · ·

They arrived hanging off the caboose of a solar-powered locomotive, in town for one afternoon of the Oklahoma Autumn Carnival. They called themselves wanderers: two brothers, never in one place for long.

Scuffed leather boots dropped one-two to the grit between the rails, moving in twin gaits to leave the tracks.

Sam Winchester – the taller, the younger – carried the kind of backpack that had been through a lot. And it showed: the waxed canvas was rubbed thin, the leather straps were stretched out, all of it straining to keep tightly-packed belongings safe. They didn’t have much. But what they had was efficient in purpose, and well-used.

Dean Winchester – the bowlegged, freckled rogue that he was – carried a bag much the same, and not much else, save for a pistol in a holster at his hip. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, and his straight teeth showed in a grin as he saw beyond grassy mounds that bordered the train tracks: a ferris wheel turned, its spirograph limbs reaching out from its central axis, passenger carts making their way up past the crest.

“How ‘bout that, Sammy?” Dean asked, hand gripping a clump of grass as he climbed out of the dike. With a sigh of triumph, he stood proudly at the top, hands on his hips. “You hear it? Man, I ain’t heard that tune since the circus was in town.”

“I don’t remember,” Sam said, joining Dean, reaching up to tuck his hair behind his ears. “Was that the time you said there was an elephant?”

Dean clicked his cheek to his teeth affirmingly. “Damn thing stood on its back legs and looked me square in the eyes. ‘Course you don’t remember, you were three.” He started down the hill, scuffing and scampering over wildflowers until he reached the white-sand path that led straight through the fields ahead.

“We should pitch our tent around here,” Sam suggested, already pulling his backpack off, pulling wrinkles into the sleeve of his brown suede jacket. “If we get any closer someone might see. I don’t really want to meet a pissed-off ranger.”

“There, by the trees,” Dean said, pointing a hundred feet to their left. “Freakin’ love the smell of pine in the mornin’. Oughta be some good firewood pickings too. Gonna get cold tonight, no clouds.”

Once they came to the woodland clearing, Sam chuckled. “Looks like we’re not the only ones who had this idea.”

“Nah,” Dean said, ducking his head to peer through the dirty windows of parked cars, rusty hatchbacks and wheel-less pickups. “These things are looong abandoned.” He gave an old Chevy a mournful pat. “Poor baby. You deserved better.”

“You get the tent up,” Sam said, tossing Dean his heavy pack, making him grunt under the sudden weight. “It’s almost four o’clock, I gotta check the radio.”

“Ugh,” Dean rolled his eyes, shucking off his own backpack, then shoving a hand into Sam’s bag and wriggling out a well-folded canvas tent. “You and your obsession with that stupid show. Always tuning in and tuning out, leavin’ me to do all the work.”

Dean threw the canvas lump and began unfolding it, pushing its inner boning until it latched into place. Meanwhile, Sam got busy angling the antenna of his handheld radio, trying to get some signal.

“Seriously,” Dean grouched, digging in Sam’s bag to find the tent pegs, “I dunno why you bother.” 

“Why do you hate it so much, Dean?” Sam asked, mildly annoyed. “Hunters all over the country listen every day, we wouldn’t be able to keep up so easily without it. The obituaries, at least— Tell me you would’ve even _known_ Pastor Jim passed if you hadn’t been listening.”

Dean scowled, wrenching the pocket-bag of pegs out of the backpack. “Not the point. The _show_ ’s fine. It’s that _guy_. I can’t stand him.”

“Who, Cas?” Sam seemed perplexed. “He _is_ Hunter Radio.”

“Exactly.” Dean poked a peg into the tent’s front corner and stood on it to push it down. “His taste in music is _froofy_. At least when Pamela picks the music she knows what she’s doing. _Cas_ , though – God, his voice gets on my nerves. All _grghrhghgh_ this, and _hmghhmm_ that. Nobody has a voice like that. It sounds fake.”

Sam stared, as the staticky end notes of _Haven’t Met You Yet_ purled from his radio speaker. “You know you sound ridiculous, right?”

Dean stomped another tent peg into the ground and didn’t care.

Soon the song ended, and the achingly deep voice of Cas Novak emerged from the radio. “ _Ah, that was Michael Bublé. One of my favourites. All right, here we are. Welcome back to Hunter Radio, sixty-six point six A.M. If you’ve just joined us – today Pamela and I are broadcasting live from outside the studio, and, as per usual, from an undisclosed location. Any hunters with a keen eye, be sure to keep a lookout. You’ll know me when you see me, I’ll undoubtedly look like I’m talking to myself._ ”

Dean rolled his eyes, shedding his leather jacket and tossing it into the tent, along with blankets pulled out from his own backpack.

“ _The big news today: another fatal attack made by rogue hunters on a group of angels occurred in western Virginia early this afternoon. Non-hunter witnesses reported to their local sheriff that the attack was unprovoked. As far as I can tell, three angels perished at the hands of seven hunters, who have since evaded comment._

“ _Suffice to say, listeners, we at Hunter Radio do not condone this kind of attack. We can only trust that the hunters in question had a good reason besides ‘they were angels’._

“ _In Seattle, the Battle of Possessed Lawmakers rages on. By my count, the death count is now in the low hundreds, close to two-fifty. Again, if you are living in the Seattle area and working in the political field, and have not acquired an anti-possession tattoo, I_ strongly _urge you to get one. Tattoo parlours are now allowing underage non-hunters to get the tattoo for free, with a guardian’s permission._

“ _The soldiers in Nebraska who monitor the sky portal to Heaven came off their three-day strike today, returning to work. One anonymous worker commented that they deserve more for the work they do – and I’m quoting here, pardon my pronunciation – ‘because ain’t nobody wants to be reminded how Paradise don’t exist no more’._

“ _Personally, I’d like to remind my listeners that, while an absolute end may seem like an overwhelming concept, the absence of an afterlife means that today is now even more precious. Find joy in the small moments; share time with loved ones; adopt a pet. Your local animal shelter is giving away all kinds of animals who need a loving home during wartime. Call us toll-free at one-eight-hundred, five-five-five, hunt, to find out how you can adopt a dog, cat, snake or spider to ease you in a troubled time._ ”

“Psh,” Dean said, finishing the tent setup. “Yeah, dude, and you get a commission every time someone adopts using your reference code. Purely outta the goodness of your heart, my ass.”

“Shh!” Sam frowned. “I’m listening.”

“ _—reminder to take care of yourself and your loved ones first,_ then _worry about the fragile world._

“ _In other news: in eastern Texas, mass disturbances in bird activity alarmed city residents during the night. Non-hunter news reporters are blaming the occurrence on an earthquake caused by fracking, but I’ve had reports from hunters in the area who have theories about croats, ghouls on the move, and a possessed cougar that got loose._ ”

Dean scoffed. “Obviously it’s not croats. God-dammit, don’t these call-ins know anything? That virus is _extinct_.”

“ _That said,_ ” Cas went on, “ _I ought to assure any non-hunters listening that the Croatoan virus is undoubtedly extinct, thanks to the efforts of several small groups of hunters across the country, five years ago. The details of the story can be found in my book ‘_ Monster-Hunter’s Muse: The Rise and Fall of a Zombie Empire _’. That, and the others in the series, are available from all good bookshops._ ”

Dean grunted, yanking his sigil-scratched circular compact out of the pocket of his pants. “See what I mean? He’s a total dick.”

“You bought the book,” Sam reasoned.

“Yeah, ‘cause our names were in it!” Dean argued, bending to check his reflection in the busted wing mirror of the abandoned Chevy. He ran his fingers below his eyes, wiping away smudged eyeliner, then went in with the nearly-blunt end of a soft pencil, drawing a fresh line on the edge of his waterline.

“Really? You’re putting on makeup? Dean, it’s a _funfair_.”

Dean shot him a dry look. “You never know, Sammy, pretty girls might come out here too. Pity the damn fool who doesn’t even think to comb his hair first.”

Sam ignored Dean, still listening to the broadcast.

“ _—Farthest south, we have a growing number of reports claiming that fish are swimming upstream. In the north – no news yet on whether the hunters who went to tackle the vampire nest in Brooklyn have succeeded. If you are the sort to pray, I hope you’ll say a word for them. I’ll take call-ins for tarot readings next, after this._ ”

The radio began to warble with the first notes of _Reflection_ from Disney’s _Mulan_. Dean snuck his compact back into his pants pocket, resisting the urge to hum along.

“I think you’re making a big deal out of nothing,” Sam said, hooking the radio to his belt, twisting a knob to lower the volume. “He seems like a good enough guy.”

“Right, right,” Dean nodded, a mocking twinkle in his eye. “How could I forget, you dragged me out here ‘cause you wanted to _meet_ him on your weekend off. Practically stalked him here, listening in for the sound of a carnival, a train whistle in the distance, spoken hints he was in the midwest. What’re you expecting, he’ll take one look at you and fall plaid over heels? That crush of yours, Sammy, gotta burn somethin’ awful.”

Sam’s bothered expression morphed into a stinging glare. “I don’t have a crush on him. He’s just cool. Journalists are... heroes. I want to tell him thank-you.”

“Pschh,” Dean said, waving a dismissive hand. He pulled his suspenders loose, leaving them dangling. He yanked up his shirt sleeves and folded them back, tucked against the thin oatmeal-coloured knit of his elbow-padded sweater. “Mark my words, Sammy, you got it bad. Hate to break it to ya, bro, but he’s probably butt-ugly. He’d have to be, gritty voice like that. He sounds like a tiger fucking a lawnmower.”

Sam sneered. “Even if that wasn’t complete bullshit, Dean, and I actually _did_ have a crush, the least I could say is that I don’t really care _what_ he looks like. He’s smart, and nice to people, and he does good work in the hunting community.”

“Good work?” Dean scoffed. “The guy publicly critiques our hunts on a near-weekly basis!”

“Yeah, and you’re a better hunter because of it,” Sam retorted, stalking off. “Come on, the sun’ll be down in an hour, I want to check out the view from the ferris wheel while there’s still daylight.”

Dean followed five feet behind, hands in his pockets.

_Reflection_ still played on the radio, and Dean sang along in total silence.

· · · ★ · · ·

“Next up we have a caller from Orange County,” Castiel announced, repeating the location Pamela mouthed to him from the other side of the tent. With a smile, Castiel leaned back in his folding chair. He flipped a glowing red button on his console, and the light that read _Call Incoming_ faded away. “And who do we have the pleasure of hearing, Orange County caller?”

The woman at the other end of the line laughed. “ _Neptune. Like the planet._ ”

“Ah, your starfield is almost aligned, my friend,” Castiel said with confidence. “You have a long life ahead of you, so long as you avoid peanut butter.”

Neptune laughed again. “ _I prefer almonds anyway._ ”

With a smile, Castiel shuffled his tarot cards atop his purple-clothed table. “Tell me,” he said, drawing the Queen of Pentacles from his deck, “you’re a mother, are you not?”

“ _Four children,_ ” Neptune said brightly. “ _My wife has another on the way._ ”

Castiel nodded, drawing the Four of Swords. “It’s going to be stressful. This fifth child will be more of a handful than you’re expecting.” He set down the card and peered out between the shadowed tent flaps, watching sandals and dog paws cross the grass outside. “Take some time to meditate, Neptune. You and your wife together. There’s a good cloud over Orange County right now, I also recommend collecting rainwater. I’d hate if you got caught short on holy water.”

“ _Holy water, got it,_ ” Neptune agreed. “ _And I’ll start yoga tomorrow._ ”

“Good,” Castiel said. “Now, have you got a request? What can we play for you today?”

“ _Ummmm..._ Like A Virgin _by Madonna?_ ”

“Absolutely. That’s coming right up. Peace be with you, Neptune. On another line we have—” he glanced at Pamela, reading her lips, “a caller from New York, New York. How’s the hunting there, friend?”

“ _Fphhshshgghhhh_ ,” came the response in Castiel’s headphones.

He reached to grasp one earphone, pushing it closer to his ear. “Hello? You’re live on the air, caller, how can we—”

“ _Fsskskhgkkkkkk_ —”

Pamela drew her fingers across her neck, and Castiel chilled from head to toe, ending the call. “Unfortunately,” he said, forcing himself to retain his cool, “our caller seems to have been cut off.”

Their caller was dead. It happened sometimes; hunters called in to the show in their last moments, at a loss for anyone else to call to say goodbye. Sometimes they didn’t get a chance to speak. Castiel swallowed and moved on.

“Now let’s see. I’ll pull a card for myself, and see what fate will bring for the remainder of my day,” Castiel suggested, still reeling. His hands were shaking as he shuffled the tarot deck. “I do hope I pull a good card. Here we go...”

He shuffled until a card dropped out, wanting to be seen. Castiel put the other seventy-seven cards down, turning over today’s card. He chuckled out loud, surprised and amused by the sight of the card.

“Ace of Cups,” he said. “In my five years of doing twice-daily readings, I’ve never pulled that card for myself, would you believe.” He hummed a satisfied note, shaking his head as he sifted the card back into the deck. “I’m sure you all know what it means: new love, emotional fulfillment. There’s something incredibly exciting in store for me today. If any of you happen to see me out there, come and say hello, won’t you? No doubt my cards know I’m about to meet some avid listeners who tracked me to this secret location. I will sign books if you’ve brought them.”

Pamela held up her hand, one forefinger raised, her blind eyes set straight on Castiel. She only saw his aura, not his face.

Castiel nodded at her. “I’ll be handing over to Pamela now, for her forty-five-minute segment ‘ _Rare Monsters and How to Kill Them_ ’. I’ll be back at five o’clock. Stay tuned for more updates, foresight, and as always, good music. Peace be with you, my friends.” With one finger, he dragged a slider control to its base, cutting off his microphone – and with the other hand, he began playing the music Pamela had queued up, so it broadcast on the air. He heard the treble of a young Madonna through his brass headphones as he lowered them to hang around his neck.

“Something got the guy before he could speak,” Pamela said. “I’ll tack the news into my segment, have a hunter team sent up there. Find out what happened.”

Castiel nodded, running a hand down his face, feeling the mottled scars under his fingertips. “I hate when people die on air. I can’t even bring myself to mention it.”

“Good thing you don’t always have to,” Pamela said, winking as she got up from her stool, rolling up the sleeves of her army-surplus jacket. “You stick to the tall-dark-and-handsome tarot readings, oozing with positivity and love, I’ll do the séances and death-day predictions. We can’t all be fighters.”

Castiel snorted, picking a tiny mica star off his black pants, setting it on the table. “I’m so tired of the fighting. I wish this war was over already, Pamela. I just want—”

“World peace, the open road tumbling under your feet and a good old-fashioned horse-cart; you wanna end the war, but you don’t want to fight. Flowing rivers of milk and honey, yadda yadda, you’ve told me eighty-four times and I know you’re going to say it before you say it, so what’s the point? Get off my seat, it’s my turn.”

Castiel got up, and Pamela scowled, brushing more mica stars off the seat. “You’re shedding again,” she told him. “These things have your aura all over them.”

With a self-conscious pat to the side of his face, Castiel pressed the silver decorations closer against his scars. “The heat makes the glue melt.”

“Mm,” Pamela said, sitting down. She pulled her headphones on, checking how much of the song had played, then lowered them again. “Go on. Go make merry out there. It’s all dead people and pishtacos from here on out.”

Castiel reached to take his wireless broadcasting microphone from the tabletop, tucking it into the pocket of his tailcoat. With his headphone cable plugged into a portable radio, and the radio in his pocket too, he reached for his mask.

He gazed into the mask’s eyeless face, seeing himself staring back, in a way. He turned the mask, hooking it behind his ears so it stayed on. It was designed half like a Greek soldier’s helmet, half like the extravagant feathered headpieces worn at masquerade balls. It was the colour of mourning on the main part around the eyes, and gold on the details, framing the mask with ancient scrolls, a pair of horned pegasi bucking upon Castiel’s temples. The mask only reached the bridge of his nose: his stubbled jaw was bare, as it was unscarred.

“See you later,” Castiel said to Pamela, and left the tent.

Outside, the sun blazed a furious white across the field of pretty pastel colours and flattened grass. Popcorn vendors churned out snacks by the bucketful, donkeys ambled from one side of the field to the other with children on their backs, and the sound of cheers and laughter all merged into a chaos that could only be interpreted as the colours pink and a cheery turquoise. Castiel smiled behind his mask, and stepped forward, disappearing into the crowds.

· · · ★ · · ·

Dean strolled through a loose crowd, a wide grin on his face, turning on his feet to get a full three-sixty view of the carnival. Every few yards, a new canvas cover grew from the ground: he passed a striped gazebo with open sides and tables set up inside; a tall, whimsical tent with a ribbon flag flying from a spire on the top; and numerous cart vendors, all spewing steam as they made hot dogs or cotton candy on demand. The tinkling, bouncy tune of the turning carousel made up the melody for the madness, and Dean felt young again, a child happily lost in paradise.

Sam trailed a few strides behind, sidestepping strangers, apologising, giving everyone a tense, uncomfortable smile. He was just past the age where he’d finally stopped growing, and instead of shooting upwards, he spread outwards, too. Dean glanced back over his shoulder, seeing easily that Sam felt too big among average-sized humans, anxious about stepping on children. With a theatrical roll of his eyes, Dean reached back, grabbed Sam by the wrist, and pulled him into a nearby tent.

Sam breathed out in relief. He tried to act casual, looking around like he’d come in here to buy... what were these, anyway?

“Oh, cool!” Sam exclaimed, pushing past Dean to examine a raggedy-looking book, laid out on a pedestal on a table of mystical tchotchkes. “Real spellbooks!”

Dean harrumphed. “Yeah, all right. You do your nerd thing, I’mma go check out the drop-tower ride.”

“See ya,” Sam uttered, nose in the book. “I’ll be by the ferris wheel if you need me.”

Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “Later, little brother— Whoa.”

There was no other way to put it: Dean had been _glomped_. “Uh.” His chin squished to his neck as he tried to look down at the redhead who’d embraced him, wondering if they had the wrong person.

But she looked up, and Dean’s heart lifted on a fountain of sparks. “Charlie!”

“Oh my _God_ , I am _so_ glad I found you,” Charlie said, wrapping Dean in another hug. “Eee!” This time Dean hugged back, laughing, swaying her smaller body from foot to foot. “Better yet, I’m glad you’re _alive_. Heard about the wendigos in North Carolina – that was you, wasn’t it?”

Dean beamed. “Me ‘n Sammy, flaming aerosol cans, back to back.”

“I _knew_ it,” Charlie said, swiping her hand against Dean’s chest. “Why do you never call in to Hunter Radio?! It’s always other hunters describing you – some six-foot brute with a pretty face and freckles. And a half-pint Bigfoot. Hey, Sam.”

With a snort, Dean eased Charlie in Sam’s direction, as he was waiting for his hug, too.

“Who needs to blab to a stupid radio show?” Dean grumped, while Sam squeezed the back of Charlie’s shoulders. “Word gets around. Just like it did _before_ the portals opened, before hunter secrecy went to shit. I mean, you figured out me ‘n Sammy took out some wendigos from a simple description. Like hell we’d wanna advertise that we’re tearing up the railroad on a hunt every other week.”

Sam let Charlie go, and then glanced at Dean, smiling. To Charlie, he added, “He’s right. I mean, if non-hunters listen to the show... bet you a raspberry Sno-Cone that monsters listen too. How come we’re still alive? Probably because we keep ourselves to ourselves, honestly.”

“True-true,” Charlie said. She smiled fondly, giving Sam a pat on the cheek, then turned, her short, wavy hair shifting with her face. “I’ll take a raincheck on that Sno-Cone, right now I gotta get back to my stall. My co-worker dropped out, and I need to find a replacement, _stat_. My car’s solar panel is inches – _inches_! – away from crapping out, and unless I can make some serious buck today, the whole vehicle’s stranded here once the carnival’s over. This week’s been one big _ahrrrgh_.”

“I’ll give you a hand with that,” Dean offered. “Installing a new solar panel, I mean.”

“Thanks, ‘preciate it. Oh, by the way, sourpuss,” Charlie clicked her fingers towards Dean, remembering something: “The Hunter Radio hosts are here tonight! Got their own tent set up just a few along from mine. _Super_ exciting. They’re trying to go undercover, but it’s not like their Mystery Van isn’t obvious. Giant antenna sticking out the back; twice as many solar panels than it takes to run the engine; blacked-out rear windows.”

“Ugh,” Dean grunted, turning his attention to a random protective amulet on the display table. “Should’a guessed you’re a big Hunter Radio fan too.”

He glanced at back his company; Sam, with his attention on the spellbook he was clearly thinking about buying, and Charlie with her _Buffy_ t-shirt and black-rimmed glasses. “God, I’m _surrounded_ by nerds. Like I need _another_ hunter with a research fetish in my life.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Charlie chuckled. “How does existing at the same carnival as Cas Novak or Pamela Barnes constitute them being ‘in your life’? You weirdo.”

Dean realised what he’d said, and flushed hot. “Just— Just don’t wanna run into them, is all.” He gulped, frowning as he stared at the amulet again. It was an attractive thing – made out of a tiny piece of driftwood, bound in twine and inlaid with a coral blue stone. Dean shoved a hand in his pocket and pulled out a dime, looking around for a seller, just to act like he had purpose, and wasn’t thinking _oh shit oh shit now Charlie thinks I wanna marry that dick_ —

Dean located a woman in a purple turban behind the table, and handed her his coin, waving the amulet to show her, before turning away and shoving his purchase into his pocket.

“Hey,” Charlie said thoughtfully, looking at Dean with a bit too much wily intention. “ _You’re_ a handsome, no-strings-attached kind of guy.” She sniffed him by his shoulder. “Clean. Good.” She narrowed her eyes, taking Dean’s face between her fingers and thumb, making him pout. Dean stared back, bewildered.

Slowly, Charlie began to grin. “You want a job? Keep you out of the way of Hunter Radio hosts.”

Dean parted his lips, rubbing his now-sore chin as Charlie let him go. “Uh. Depends. What’s the money like?”

“Depends,” Charlie said right back. “More girls you kiss, the more cash you take away. I get a fifty-percent cut. Need it for the solar panel, obvs.”

Naturally, Dean was intrigued. “Girls?”

“Kissing booth. Five cents a smooch. Cheek only, don’t worry – you won’t catch cooties. Just for half an hour, until the stall closes. Gotta bring your A-game, last guy dropped out ‘cause he didn’t have the energy to flirt with every girl. They’re not all pretty.”

Dean quirked up a grin. “What’s pretty got to do with it? I ain’t ever met a chick I _wouldn’t_ smooch, so long as they ask nice.”

Charlie smiled wider. “ _That’s_ the attitude I’m looking for.”

· · · ★ · · ·


	2. Amusements (and Alarm)

Castiel lifted the rifle in careful hands, hovering it beside his cheek. He felt warmth radiating off the stock, lingering from the last person who aimed it. Five feet ahead, miniature metal monsters leered at him from between wooden trees, jovially sneaking along, rocking back and forth, or popping up at semi-random intervals from behind a bush.

With a determined frown, Castiel shot a cartoon ghost, and missed.

Jaw clenched, he shot a Dracula-styled vampire – _ping!_ – he clipped its slicked-back hair; the metal form rocked on its hinge but continued sliding across a lawn.

Taking a deep, preparatory breath, Castiel aimed at a point on the predicted trajectory of a half-transformed werewolf, and fired a moment before it got there. With a metallic _slank!_ the werewolf flopped over backwards, and Castiel grinned. One point.

He tuned out the tootling of arcade music, the crowd bustling behind him, the watchful eyes and rusty soul of the gruff old man who ran this game. The timer was running out, and Castiel _really_ wanted that prize—

_Ping, slank! slank! – ping!_

Castiel relaxed the barrel of his gun, giving a sigh of defeat. He’d shot a werewolf, a ghoul, and a djinn, but that wasn’t good enough for the big prize.

“Welp, time’s up,” said the stall manager. “What d’ya want, kid? Three outta seven hits gets you a Pocket Pal, take your pick.” The man dumped a plastic tub on the barrier in front of Castiel. A hundred little plastic animals were piled in there, legs interlocked, wings stabbing each other’s bellies.

Castiel gazed wistfully at the blade hung above the stall, the grand prize.

“Hey, eyes down here. You earn that thing, you get to look at it.”

Castiel gave the man a sorry smile, and rummaged in the bucket for a few seconds, bringing up a pegasus. He looked at its lilac eyes and white winged form, and supposed it would do. “Thank you,” he said to the manager, who gripped the rim of his navy-blue baseball hat and tipped it his way.

“Better luck next time, Phantom.”

“Phantom?”

The manager raised his bushy grey brows. “Ya ain’t goin’ for a _Phantom of the Opera_ vibe? Mask, golden tailcoat?”

“No,” Castiel answered, touching the bottom of his mask.

The man scoffed, looking amused. “You overdressed,” he uttered. “Now git, there’s kids waitin’ with better aim than you.” He cocked his head upwards towards the blade. “You want that thing, you come back with a dozen more dimes.”

Solemnly, Castiel nodded. He took his pegasus and sidled out from an eager group of children who wanted to get their hands on a gun and “shoot some monsters like a _real_ hunter”. He smiled, though the expression was tinged with disappointment. His fingers ran over the shape of the pegasus in his pocket – but as he retreated, he felt a bump on a distant limb, and heard a child yelp.

He looked back, gasping softly as he realised he’d tripped one of the kids with his invisible wings. Frozen in place, he hesitated, fighting the urge to help the boy up. Instead his young friend pulled him back to his feet asking, “Dude, what happened?”

The boy responded, confused, “I-I-I don’t know?” He looked around but saw nothing. “Something hit me. Warm and... fuzzy. Like a dog.”

“I didn’t see anything,” the boy’s companion said, frowning at the trampled grass.

“Oooooh, there’s Hellhounds!” came the excited cry of another friend, jumping up and down, whipping colourful braids about their shoulders.

Ashamed and embarrassed, Castiel turned his back, shrinking inside his tailcoat. He sank his hands deep into his pockets, making sure to keep his wings tucked closer against his back as he walked. He felt crowd members brushing past, unknowingly touching his feathers as they passed by. Sometimes his wings existed and took up space, but sometimes they didn’t. Even after six years, the physics of them eluded him.

He wandered for a while, resisting the temptation to buy fairground food and eat it, just so he had something to do. He lifted his headphones to his ears, only to hear Pamela’s gruesome description of a common pishtaco feeding style, so hastily lowered the headphones again.

In his pocket, his fingers moved from the pegasus to the cool brass of his portable microphone. It wasn’t time yet, but he longed to use it.

Once on air, he could find joy in everything, always ready to describe a sight or sensation to his five-million-strong audience. But without any reason to speak, and dissect each sensation, everything felt like white noise. Crowds were the worst. All these souls, gleaming, colours mixing together. It hurt his eyes. All fifteen of them.

Seeking a quiet place as salvation from the herds, Castiel’s two human eyes went from the base of the ferris wheel to the bouncy castle, but he kept walking, and walking. The evening sun stung hot at the side of his neck, the only part not covered by his tailcoat’s high collar or his cravat, and he rubbed his skin as he wandered. He bypassed a coconut shy, a tent with a Build-A-Monster variation of Build-A-Bear, and a hoopla in which several people were mid-argument, shouting about the game being rigged. The spice of barbeque smoke and the sultry flavour of fruit cocktails wafted past his nose on each gentle shift of the breeze.

At last his attention lighted on a plain, spacious tent with a gaping front opening. Castiel automatically headed towards it; there was only a handful of people in there, as opposed to the dozens in all the others the same size. One hand-painted banner hung above, reading ‘ _Pucker Up! 5¢ Kisses_ ’.

Castiel had no interest in kissing anyone, but he went inside anyway.

Ah. Quiet, at last. The sweet hubbub of excited young women was unobtrusive to Castiel’s senses. Their souls were bright in his vision, but they harmonised as a group. He felt safe in their company.

Castiel stood in a back corner, eyes on the moving mass outside. Thumping, thumping, shoes on the grass. He had to turn away, pushing away the echoes of marching boots, an army coming for him, an army behind him.

He was again captivated by the giggles of these women. Why were they here? They were lined up in unstructured lines, chatting... Castiel watched one woman at the front of the nearest line: olive-skinned, with flowing black hair tucked into a sash at her waist. She sat on a folding chair in front of a small covered table... offered a coin to the red-haired woman on the other side of a table... They shared a few words – they both laughed – and Castiel was struck with awe as the black-haired woman leaned in to kiss the other lady on the cheek.

He lowered his eyes and looked away, flustered. This really wasn’t his place.

Working up the courage to leave, Castiel chanced one more look back, unable to quell his curiosity. The second table had a longer line, and once a few customers received their kiss and got up to leave, Castiel could see past the throng.

Surely his heart stopped for a moment. Forget the freckles, the wide shoulders, the easygoing grin— Never before had Castiel seen a light so _radiant_.

His eyes shifted about, wondering if anyone else here realised who that man was. Nobody turned their heads. Nobody could see Dean Winchester’s soul but Castiel.

Though humans could not see souls, clearly they sensed Dean’s brilliance. A dozen women still waited their turn, thrilled they’d get a chance to kiss him.

Castiel reached into his pocket and found a nickel. He ran his thumb over it, then let it go, turning away.

Oh. But... what a pity it would be if he left.

He hesitated.

...And he stayed.

But he held back, even so. All of Dean’s customers were women. Castiel was no man, but he was even less a woman. He wasn’t sure if his nickel would be welcome.

For several minutes, Castiel waited – so long that every customer left, soon replaced by curious new people. They took one look at Dean’s charming grin and mussed hair, and they lined up, starting conversations with others about him. Some men entered, but they waited their turn to kiss the woman, not Dean.

Eventually, one man in his early twenties wandered into the tent, looking for someone. He was tall, and somehow familiar: Castiel watched him intently. The man saw Dean, waved, then bypassed the line. He put down a coin, shoulder-length hair swinging as he leaned down to Dean—

Dean laughed and smooched him on the cheek, hands on either side of the man’s face.

With another laugh, they shoved each other, and the younger man strode off out of the tent, grinning to himself. That had to be Sam, Castiel thought.

Dean got right back to kissing pretty girls. And Castiel? He moved to stand in line. People who looked like men were allowed to kiss Dean. So he would kiss Dean.

· · · ★ · · ·

Dean only noticed Charlie’s line of customers had run empty when she leaned against his side. “Looks like it’s all you from here,” she lamented, jokingly. “Aren’t _you_ a popular attraction.”

“I’m adorable,” Dean told her, winking at the middle-aged lady who sat down before him.

“Can say that again, you cute little dumpling,” the woman purred, eyes running down his torso. She tapped her cheek with a red fingernail. “Give me some sugar, why don’t you.” She slid her nickel across the table, then leaned in.

Dean eased forward with a huge grin. “Don’t mind if I do, ma’am,” he said, and gave her soft, furry cheek a slow peck, fingers creeping over the table to sneak away the coin as he did. He pulled back, stowing the coin in a pouch in his lap. “Hope you have the best day of your life, darlin’.”

“Oh, I already have,” she teased, laughing as she got up. “What a doll.”

Dean winked after her, then grinned at Charlie.

Charlie didn’t look back, not at first. “You’ve got an unusual admirer,” she remarked, finally glancing back at Dean. Head angling away, she nodded towards a figure lurking near the back of the line. Dean leaned against Charlie’s side, trying to see past his waiting crowd. Indeed, there was a masked visitor who stepped out of line, returning to the back, anxiously looking around. Dean’s heart _leapt_ in his chest as he realised the masked stranger was a man. They had to be, right? That stubbly diamond jaw, dark purple cravat and black shirt. Dean couldn’t see the man’s eyes through the shadowed eyeholes of his mask, but he was sure those eyes peered back. Prickles of anticipation ran up Dean’s back.

He was going to kiss a man. _In public_.

Dean wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. He gave the woman sitting in front of him a quick smile, but he knew his attention was diverted. He leaned in, gave the kiss he owed, and snuck away the coin without a word.

Five more.

Seven more.

Twelve.

There were only a handful more women to kiss, and then Dean would be kissing rough instead of smooth, breathing harsh instead of honeyed, hearing deep instead of dainty. He was trembling, one knee rocking in place below the table. Tingles rushed between his legs, blood thickening with excitement.

Never before. Never, ever, ever.

First time.

Oh, God.

With nothing else to occupy her attention, Charlie sensed Dean’s discomposure and quick-darting eyes – but rather than interpreting it as excitement, she gave him a worried look, asking quietly, “Do you want me to ask him to leave?”

Dean flushed hot, desperate to think of a good reason to say no. “I— It’s fine,” he whispered, blinking hastily. “Payin’ customer, right? I can kiss whoever, it’s no big deal.” He gulped hard, giving the penultimate woman a tense smile as she sat down, praying his expression looked genuine.

Even so, Charlie got up. Dean’s eyes followed her as he leaned in to kiss his customer, mind enraged by the idea that she might ask the guy to leave anyway. But she didn’t. She went to the front of the tent and began untying the cords that kept the front flap open. As Dean’s second-to-last lady left, Charlie lifted the flap to let her through.

One more girl. A teenager, with smudged mascara, and thick foundation covering her acne.

Dean gave her a gentle smile. “Hey there. How’s your day goin’, huh?”

“‘Kay,” breathed the girl. She put the coin on the table so hastily that it rolled off the other side.

Dean laughed kindly, waving away her apologies. “Don’t worry about it, I love digging around in the grass. Me ‘n my brother used to go huntin’ for little monsters before it was cool.”

The girl grinned, caught off-guard by such an admission. “You’re a hunter?”

“Have been since I was your age,” he told her, winking. “Miss— Look, uhhh... Can’t say I’m not weirded out by the fact you’re barely a beansprout. I got twelve years on you, easy. How’s about you just gimme a lil’ peck, I’ll close my eyes and think of home.”

Blushing, the girl shrugged. “Okay.”

Dean offered his cheek, and did as he promised: he shut his eyes tight and imagined an open road, horse-cart grooves cut into the hardened grit, autumn leaves choking the banks on either side. He felt the press of tender lips on the high point of his cheek, and he smiled as the girl leaned back. “Go on,” he said, “go back to your mama.”

With a flustered smile, the girl gathered her skirts and got up, fleeing with her hand on her cheek. Dean bit his lip and grinned, watching Charlie lift the tent flap just enough to let her through.

Now Dean was alone with Charlie... and this mysterious masked stranger.

Dean felt arousal flooding back in waves. He was singeing from the inside out, probably pink in the cheeks and steaming from the ears.

The man stood in silence, not yet sitting down.

Dean offered a gesture of welcome, inviting the stranger closer.

Seconds passed. But then, at last, he came forward.

He did not sit. He raised his hand to his mask, and pulled back the shade, sliding it up over his forehead until it came away in his hand. His eyes were lowered, rimmed with black kohl. He was Caucasian, but tanned, slightly paler around his eyes. Yes, a stubbled face; yes, a masculine point to his cheekbones. Yes, yes, _yes_ , eyes as blue as the sky on a frosty winter’s morning.

Dean could not will his mouth to close. He stared, in awe of this man’s beauty. Purple makeup adorned one temple, blended up over his right brow. Silver stars sparkled from the side of his face, hiding... hiding a scar.

If the man was attractive before, he was _irresistible_ now.

The man finally took his seat. “Hello,” he said, in a round, deep voice.

Dean gulped, licking his lips. A flicker of recognition stole through his chest, and he asked, words rough, “Do I... know you?”

The man’s smile was enigmatic. Enigmatic, in that it seemed sad, but Dean didn’t understand why.

“No, I suppose you don’t,” the man replied. His voice – holy _hell_ , that was _filthy_. It was a thick, tar-heavy voice, and it shot straight through Dean like a lit match on gasoline.

The feeling of familiarity only became stronger. More intense. Dean knew this man, but not his face. Not his mannerisms, not his name. Not his voice. _How_ , then? How could Dean feel like the world went quiet, all but vanishing around him, just to make this moment more surreal?

The man parted his pink lips, and a breath escaped him. “I believe,” he said, “you are offering kisses in exchange for money.”

Dean quirked a shy grin. “Well, when you put it like that, kinda makes me sound like a no-good tramp.”

The man raised his eyebrows in shock. “Oh! No, I didn’t mean that. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it. I’d—” He lowered his eyes, then bowed his head, blinking a few times as if chastised. “I’d very much like the pleasure of kissing you, if you’d be willing.”

Okay, Dean was crushing. _Hard_. The guy was a fairytale prince, straight out of a story book.

The man looked up now, blue eyes watching Dean’s. “May I?”

Dean only then realised he hadn’t said a word to encourage him. “Uh! Yeah.” He flicked up a grin. “Yeah-yeah. Mm-hm.” He nodded, scooting to the edge of his seat in his eagerness. His whole body was flaming alight, from his ears to the soles of his feet. Sweat tickled at his lower back. He could smell his own excitement, dense in the air around him.

The man hesitated, lips slowly closing around nothing. Quietly, he admitted, “I’ve never done this before.”

Dean blushed. “Me either. Just girls.”

“Oh,” the man said. “I meant... ever. I’ve never kissed anyone.”

Dean battled down his surprise. “Hh,” he said, rather weakly. “Um. Cool.”

With a friendly smile, the man leaned in. Every one of Dean’s senses were _screaming_ – the guy smelled like fucking _candy apples_ , and it legitimately felt like there was an electrical charge around him, making Dean’s hair stand on end as they got closer, closer, closer—

Dean shut his eyes and tilted his head, expecting softness and prickles against his lips.

Instead the sensation pressed his cheek, and Dean naturally turned his head, trying to correct the mistake—

“Oh,” the man murmured, ducking away. “I thought—”

“Shit,” Dean uttered, scalding hot inside his skin. He covered his burning forehead with his hand. “Yeah, you— You were right, it’s cheek kisses— I, um. I just. I dunno, my brain— Lot of people, rode the train all night—” He gave a feeble grin, at a loss.

This man, though, he looked at Dean with such knowing... such understanding.

It wasn’t possible.

And yet, here he was, leaning in again, eyes locked with Dean’s.

Dean took a breath, looking around to check where Charlie was.

Charlie was gone. They were alone. Nobody would see.

Dean leaned closer, shut his eyes, and let the stranger kiss his parting lips.

Oh.

Oh...

Dean melted into him, one hand weak as he reached to touch the man’s lace cravat, fabric soft between his fingertips. His knuckles bumped a pair of brass headphones; just at the edge of his awareness, Dean heard a tinny voice muttering through the headphone speakers. Rough facial hair rasped against Dean’s, _stinging_ , strong lips giving a firm press, warm breath sneaking into Dean’s mouth, sweet on his tongue.

“Hmmmm,” Dean purred, eyebrows raised in blissful surprise, lashes twitching as they brushed the peak of the man’s right cheek. Body heat diffused against Dean’s skin in noticeable waves, and the waves came between Dean’s pounding heartbeats – but after a moment, the man’s heatwaves and Dean’s heartbeat synchronised.

That pressure between Dean’s legs only strengthened. He felt more than fire – he heard colour like harp music in his ears, and felt sound, tight and big behind his eyes. He forgot where his feet were, forgot he had thoughts. Everything vanished and became one.

Their kiss broke, and Dean was left helpless.

He met the man’s eyes, and saw craters of darkness within the blue moons.

Dean didn’t know what to do now.

“Thank you,” the man said, simply. “That was... nice. Very nice, actually.”

“Hm...” Dean managed, too distracted by their eye contact. This guy stared like he was looking into Dean’s soul. It should have been harrowing to be made that vulnerable by someone who was, by all logical accounts, a total stranger, but the intimacy of it only sought to entice Dean further.

But he had to leave. He always had to leave.

Dean wet his lips, standing up suddenly. The pouch of money topped into the grass, and Dean ducked under the table, blushing furiously, scrambling through sleek green stalks to find his lost nickels. The darkness was all at once made light: the man crawled under the table with Dean, having lifted the other side of the tablecloth.

“Hello,” he said, smiling at Dean.

Dean breathed out. “Hey.”

“I found a penny,” the man said lowly, showing Dean.

That _voice_...

Dean whimpered. Then he realised the sound had actually come out of his actual _mouth_ , and he sneered at himself, leaving the rest of the coins to languish in the dirt. He sat back on his folding chair, grass-stained hands clutching the velvet pouch, yanking on the cord to tighten the lip.

His eyes moved to watch a tanned, well-toned hand put down a single penny on the tabletop.

“Thanks,” Dean murmured, putting the coin into his pouch. He stood up again. “I’m gonna—” He pointed firmly at the front of the tent. But his lower lip quivered, and he gave the man a dopey smile. “Thanks.”

The man’s eyebrows rose a half-inch closer to his hairline. “Yes, I recall you saying that a moment ago.”

“Right.” Dean lowered his chin, pursing his lips forward and scrunching them to one side.

“You’re welcome?” the man tried.

Dean grinned. “Yeah. Thank you.” He scowled. “Shit. Okay, I seriously need to go, bye.” He rushed off, pocketing his spoils. He heard rumbly laughter behind him, which made him smile despite the heat of shame engulfing his face.

“Wait,” called the man, still chuckling.

Dean paused at the entrance, one hand keeping the tent flap open. He looked back, watching the man stand up, golden tailcoat swaying to frame his waist again. The mask was replaced upon his temples, hooked behind his ears, black feathers hiding his dark brown hair.

He approached, mere pinpricks of autumn daylight shining behind the mask, letting Dean be sure he was making eye contact.

Candy apple warmth flushed back into Dean’s awareness, and he felt his heart somersault in his chest.

“I have a question,” the man said.

Dean licked his lips. “Shoot.”

A smirk lifted one side of the man’s lips. “Are you any good with guns?”

· · · ★ · · ·

_Slank! Slank! Slank – slank, slank, slank!_

Castiel’s heart withheld a beat, breath hanging on silence as Dean lined up the rifle again.

_...Slank!_

Dean grinned, easing the empty gun into an upright position. “What’s that, seven for seven? You gotta make these games harder, old man.”

The manager of the shooting game folded his arms, crinkling his plaid overshirt. “Old man, huh? Look who’s talkin’. Last time you breezed through town you were up to my knees and thought waterproof galoshes were the height ‘a fashion. Ain’t seen hide or hair of ya in twenty-odd years – this game’s for _kids_ , ya idjit.”

Dean smirked. “Aw, I missed you too, Bobby,” he said, handing back the rifle, one hand on his heart. “Listen, though – I know I got an unfair advantage here, but lemme see that blade, would you? I promised Feather-Face here I’d win it.” Dean cocked his head in Castiel’s direction.

Castiel beamed at Dean’s side. In all his years hearing stories about the Winchesters, he’d never seen first-hand proof they were infallible marksmen. Dean had emptied the gun in nine seconds and hit every moving target, and Castiel hadn’t even seen him blink.

With weary resignation, Bobby reached up and unhooked the grand prize from the beam over the stall. Beside its supporting hooks was a sign reading ‘ _Genuine Article! Angel Blade_ ’.

Bobby handed the blade over upon his outstretched fingertips, and Dean took it with two careful hands.

“Wow,” Dean uttered, rotating the golden spike. “I never saw one up close, ‘cept in battle. Looks kinda like a miniature sword, huh. Or a tent spike.”

Castiel pressed himself to Dean’s side, eyes on the blade. “I maintain a small collection of these weapons. All in a bulletproof glass case, along one wall of the apartment.”

“God, this is weird,” Dean breathed, in awe of the weapon in his hands. “Can you imagine? Forged in _Heaven_. This thing’s gotta be priceless.”

“Hence it bein’ a fake,” Bobby uttered under his breath.

Dean and Castiel looked at him in surprise.

“What?” Bobby shrugged. “Like I’m crazy enough to bring a registered war article to a fairground. This thing couldn’t kill a sleeping squirrel, let alone anythin’ else.”

Castiel tensed his jaw, glancing away so as not to show his disappointment too obviously.

Dean snorted. He handed back the angel blade, and Bobby took it, returning it to its hooks. “You’re a swindler, old man.”

“Ain’t no other reason I’m still in business,” Bobby replied, a dastardly twinkle in his eyes. He leaned off to the side and plucked out a fat blue plushie unicorn from the side panel of the stall, offering it to Dean. “There’s ya prize. Take it or leave it.”

Dean was about to retort in disgust, when Castiel leaned past him to accept the toy. “Thank you.”

“You like that thing?” Dean asked, lip quirked.

Castiel shrugged a shoulder, smiling helplessly. He turned the unicorn so it looked at Dean, and he wiggled it, making its bean-filled legs skitter around.

Dean huffed, lowering his head as he smiled. “A’right then. If you’re happy.”

“I am.”

“Good.” Dean saluted Bobby with two fingers, then turned away, shaking his head. Castiel followed.

Dean realised Castiel was keeping up, and looked back as him as they eased through the lively crowd. “Hey, you a fan of ice cream?”

Castiel slipped his plushie unicorn into his tailcoat pocket, where it could keep the plastic pegasus company. “I do like ice cream. Do you?”

“How is that a question? Obviously I do.” Dean took Castiel by the sleeve and pulled him through the crowd. They emerged by a white truck with a propped-open side, their eyes shielded from the setting sun by the angled menu board, attached like a fin to the van’s flank. They only had to wait seconds for service; the previous customer collected his hot dog and turned to leave.

“Chocolate soft serve, thanks,” Dean said to the server, holding up a forefinger. He glanced at Castiel, brows rising questioningly over his startlingly green eyes.

Castiel just nodded. Dean looked back at the server and raised another finger. “Make it two.”

As Castiel began digging in his pockets for change, Dean chuckled, waving him down. “Hey, it’s fine, man, I got it. My treat.”

He paid in dimes from his velvet pouch, and handed Castiel the first ice-cream cone, wrapped in a white serviette.

“Mm,” Castiel purred, eyes shut as a silky sweet chill caressed the top of his palate. The finishing tang of cocoa made his mouth water, even after he swallowed.

“Good?” Dean asked, curious.

Castiel nodded, and Dean looked even more eager once he got his own to eat. They wandered away from the van, sides pressed together, each mouthing bites out of blissfully cold mountains.

“Ain’t had ice cream in months,” Dean remarked, ambling forward between people who were largely headed the other way. He glanced back, meeting Castiel’s eyes as he added, “Been workin’ cases end-to-end. This is the first weekend me ‘n my brother got off in God knows how long. Figured we deserved a break, y’know? Just took a quick job so I had some spending money.”

“I’m here working,” Castiel admitted, with a small smile. “I have a tent – ah, just there. The purple one with the orange tassels on the curtain.”

“Huh,” Dean said, eyeing the tent. “What do you do in there?”

“Read people’s fortunes, mostly,” Castiel said. “I’m a psychic by trade.”

“Yeah?” Dean grinned. “What’s in store for me? Am I gonna meet a tall, dark and handsome stranger, or what?”

Castiel raised his eyebrows, biting into his ice cream cone, replying with his mouth full, “Did you not already? Or am I not han’shome enough to count?”

Dean blushed. “Naw, you’re handsome. More than a little. C’mon.” He cast his eyes away, then turned his whole face – but after a moment, he looked at Castiel again. “This is gonna sound weird... but, like...? You kinda don’t feel like a stranger. I dunno. Feels like I’ve known you for years.”

With a nod, Castiel replied, “The same is undoubtedly true for me.”

Dean’s smile was a shy one. He seemed flattered.

Castiel dipped his free hand into his trouser pocket, pulling out his pocket watch, pressing it open. “Twelve minutes,” he said, licking ice cream from the side of his lips. “What can we do together in twelve minutes? I have to get back to work at five.”

A filthy grin shot up Dean’s cheek.

Castiel rolled his eyes. “I meant pure, wholesome, carnival fun.”

“Always a carnival when I’m involved,” Dean winked.

“You are a delightful specimen, aren’t you,” Castiel said blithely, while believing it wholly. He grinned when Dean tipped his head back and laughed. “Really, though. What about this?”

In the centre of the milling walkway sat a cheery-looking man with a big, soft belly and rainbow suspenders. He sat on a garden chair, with his bare feet in a bright blue sea-shell paddling pool. In the pool were a dozen rubber ducks, all with white hooks screwed into their backs.

“Tuppence a go,” the man sang, noticing Castiel’s interest. “Nab all the ducks, win a bag of candy!”

Castiel looked at Dean for permission.

Dean’s snicker carried a note of disdain, touching his fingers to his forehead. He shook his head, then munched into his ice cream cone. “If you wanna, man, I ain’t gonna stop you. Not like I’m the only one who gets a kick outta kiddie games, right?”

Castiel handed Dean his well-licked ice cream cone, swapping it for Dean’s velvet pouch. He bent his head down and dug around with a finger until he found a penny, then another penny, and handed both to the owner of the rubber ducks.

With an air of nonchalance, Dean ate the rest of his own ice cream, then started on Castiel’s, crunching the cone while Castiel fished around for ducks. There were a few stalks of grass floating in the pool, too.

“I have to say,” Castiel uttered, pulling a fourth and fifth duck out onto the grass together, “this is quite satisfying. You try.” He handed Dean the fishing pole: a broomstick with a hook duct-taped on the end. He took back what remained of his ice cream cone and set it flat against his tongue, crunching down.

Dean was outwardly reluctant – his gaze flicked to the sky, shoulders slumping – but Castiel watched him fish out a sixth, seventh, and eighth duck, definitely smiling, albeit in a bemused, confused sort of way.

“I have a recurring dream about fishing,” Dean said, half to himself. He paused with a tenth duck in his hand, looking at its painted eyes, each with a single swooping eyelash. “Haven’t had it for a while, though.”

“Ever catch anything?” Castiel asked, hands in his pockets.

Dean smirked. “Not once. I think it’s more about... sitting. Being at peace. Not having something or someone to get up in arms about.”

“I wish I had dreams like that,” Castiel said gently, taking the last duck as Dean handed it to him. Castiel squeezed the duck, and it spat out a spray of water through the hole in its base. As he released it, it squealed while re-inflating. With a smile, Castiel tossed the duck to the duck man, who caught it, then lifted one foot out of the water, crossing his ankle over his knee.

“C’mon,” Dean said, angling his head to indicate they should leave.

“Don’t forget your candy,” the duck man said, tossing Castiel a packet. Castiel bent at the knees to catch it, thanking the man.

“Oh, awesome,” Dean cheered, taking the packet, eyes alight with enthusiasm. “Ain’t had this since I was a kid.”

They turned, leaving the paddling pool and its duck residents behind. Castiel looked back once to see the duck man tossing all the ducks back into the water – he didn’t seem to notice the sweeping ripples the tips of Castiel’s wings had caused.

“Candy powder,” Dean said, tearing open the packet, fingering around inside for a spoon. “Think it’s half baking soda or somethin’. But damn it tastes good. Umhff.” He shovelled some into his mouth, then coughed, exhaling a white powder cloud. “Yum,” he managed, eyes watering. “Here, you have some.”

Castiel took the same spoon, and tipped some into his mouth with considerable apprehension. “Heeh,” he said, mouth tensing outwards. “It’s spicy.”

“ _Fizzy_ ,” Dean corrected, grunting from the back of his throat, one fist thumping his chest. “Ahh, so good.”

Castiel chuckled, handing back the powder. “Tastes like... molecules.” The aggressive flavour of fake orange lingered on his tongue, sour and sticky.

“God, I need a drink,” Dean wheezed, beelining for a big sign that said ‘ _Lemonade_ ’.

Castiel still held Dean’s money, so he paid for their lemonade before handing back the pouch. Dean gripped his biodegradable cup like it held the elixir of life, and he downed the beverage in three swift gulps. He screwed his eyes up tight, then blinked hard, eyes wide and eyebrows raised.

“I’ve had milk more lively than that,” he murmured, staring at his cup sadly.

Castiel smirked, sipping his flat soda, his appreciation reserved solely for the taste. “I never much liked fizz,” he said. “It panics my tongue.”

His eyes drifted to his and Pamela’s purple tent in the middle distance, and with a chill of surprise, he realised he didn’t really want to return to work. He’d begun to truly enjoy himself, and despite the pandemonium dancing on his taste buds at present, and the _noise_ of souls all around him, even the people nudging at Castiel’s elbows as they brushed past wasn’t too much of a bother.

It was easy to see why Castiel felt so calm. Dean’s soul radiated peace. The very kind which Castiel always craved.

A soul was not like an aura: it did not reflect emotion, nor health, nor talents or gifts, nor a person’s good or bad intentions. It did not show thought. It had no colour, it was simply a light without a measurable wavelength. It was the thing that the living clay kept protected.

For reasons unknown, Dean’s soul was brighter and more beautiful than any other Castiel had ever seen. Castiel couldn’t look away, and nor did he want to. Maybe this was why God chose him, after all. He stood out among others.

Dean peered back, lapping fizzy candy powder from his lips. He seemed curious at first, but then, as Castiel continued to stare in silence, Dean began to blush.

Dean lowered his eyes, smiling quietly. “You countin’ my freckles, Feathers?”

Castiel chuckled, finally breaking his stare to look at Dean’s crumpled shirt collar instead, three buttons undone before the V of his thin-knit sweater covered the parting. “Would you be offended if I was?”

“No,” Dean smirked, a flicker of confusion creasing between his brows for a second, then vanishing. He looked at Castiel again. “But I’m a lil’ put out that I can’t count those pretty stars stuck to your face. Figure that’d make us even.”

Castiel did reach to touch the mask, willing to remove it, but he stayed his hand, as there were other people around. He swallowed, aware that the mask kept Dean from seeing his consternation.

Dean breathed out, shaking his head. “Hey, no pressure. Actually, you know what, don’t worry about it. You, um... gotta get to work. Readin’ fortunes. Being all mysterious. Heh.” He rolled a shoulder, looking down into his empty lemonade cup. “I’ll see you around, right?” There was pleading in his eyes as he looked up.

The sun went down behind distant mountains; a pink haze was dampened by the oncoming gloom. The warmth remained. In fact, the warmth grew, as Castiel felt so stimulated by Dean’s interested gaze.

Parting his stuck lips, Castiel could only answer, “I truly hope I do, Dean.”

Dean smiled – then paused.

He frowned, tilting his head. “I never told you my name.”

Castiel was about to reply when he was distracted by a group shriek, then a shout – and a shrill chorus of seabirds. He turned towards the disturbance, and his eyes widened. The whole congregation saw them coming: a flock of seagulls made its way through the carnival crowds, flying low, cannoning into flags, tearing the soft roofs from tents as their webbed feet bumped them by the hundred.

String lights came apart from their tacks, their glowing bulbs flickering and dying as the cables followed the birds. Some seagulls yanked themselves free, others tumbled into the mass of people – screams of alarm rang out – only for the birds to lift free once more, re-joining their flock on clumsy wings.

Some of the creatures were smaller and darker than others, though. Black, baby seagulls—? No...

Bats.

The screeching was inconceivable. It was the casual shanty of a beach town at midday, seagulls clamouring for sandwich crusts – but this was Oklahoma at sundown. These seabirds were _hundreds_ of miles inland. And when did bats _ever_ mingle with seabirds? They flew without care to personal safety – wild, panicked, presumably exhausted.

Castiel jerked his head back as a bat shot past his face, cutting the air with a whistle. A hundred followed, white and black in the ink-spilled sky, grey against the lilac. Castiel looked up and saw them blot across the crescent moon, blackening the world and turning it into a screaming hell.

The crowds below pointed, taking photographs, adults holding children atop their shoulders to see better. The children cried, wanting to be saved from the mindless chaos. They were brought down again, to Castiel’s relief.

He was no stranger to supernatural portents. Only today he’d spoken of fish leaping the wrong way up a river, and a million birds abandoning half a state within tens of minutes. And now he looked up into the darkened sky, knowing for sure that something was wrong in the world.

“Dean!” came a shout, a familiar name audible amongst the discord.

Castiel turned as Dean turned: Sam Winchester ducked and struggled through the crowds, swimming between distracted onlookers. He shouted for Dean again, out of breath as he reached them.

“They’re coming from the south-east,” Sam spoke up over the noise, shaking his head. “Something must’ve happened over there. All the wildlife is trying to escape.”

The red-haired young woman from the kissing booth muscled her way closer, pulling caught hair from her mouth. “If the gulls came from the coast, I’d chance a guess to say there’s something in the water, North Atlantic, or the Gulf of Mexico. The fish – you remember, the _fish_ , it was on the radio—”

Dean looked up, gaping at the swarm. The last of the creatures trailed into the dusklight, the whole mass of them painting a crying black cloud into an otherwise empty, silent sky.

The light returned to its prior diminishment: Dean’s face was cast with purple shadows, the green of his eyes quickly being lost to the shade. He had no words.

Voice weakened, Castiel said, “All the birds abandoned eastern Texas this morning. If there’s an epicentre, the Gulf of Mexico sounds about right.” He gulped when the other three looked his way.

Dean stared. Sam’s eyebrows raised. And the woman, whatever her name was, she looked at Castiel with her eyes widening.

“You!” she exclaimed. “Cas Novak. It’s you. Hunter Radio guy!”

Dean scoffed. “No, it’s not—”

“Oh, like you wouldn’t recognise that speech pattern anywhere,” Charlie grinned.

Shaking his head, Dean’s eyes went to Castiel. “You’re not. No. Come on. You don’t sound like that.”

Castiel looked back at him, pressing his lips together forgivingly. “I sound very different through a speaker. I use a voice-distorting filter when I’m on air – I barely recognise myself, hearing recordings.”

Dean still shook his head. “No. _No._ That guy, he’s... he’s confident. And _pushy_ , when he interviews people.”

Castiel’s laugh came out as a quiet “hm-hm!” He grinned, looking down. “I think you mistake my politeness for a lack of confidence. I can be... demanding, when need be.” He gave Dean a slow stare.

Dean swallowed hard. There was no hiding his attraction, even now. In fact, Dean looked at Castiel with even more intensity, with a crooked wrinkle between his eyebrows, concentrating like he was trying to unravel yarn in his mind.

The woman gave Sam a high-five, then offered the same hand to Castiel to shake. “Charlie Bradbury,” she said. “Woman of Letters, and a _big_ fan of yours.”

Castiel shook her hand, smiling. “Bradbury. Oh, yes! Yes, I’ve read some of your papers. _A History of Monsters’ Rights Activism_ – hah, it kept me up until five in the morning. An incredible study, _admirably_ unbiased.”

Charlie’s teeth showed as she gave a delighted grin.

“Sam—”

“Winchester,” Castiel finished, shaking Sam’s hand, covering their knuckles with his left palm. “Yes, I gathered as much. I’ve followed the results and repercussions of your hunts for many years. You always astound me.”

Castiel let Sam’s hand go, eyes drifting to Dean.

They both drew a breath, unsure what to say.

Dean wet his lips, gaze darting away to the recovering crowd, then back. “Guess you do know me, then. I mean, given the amount of times you’ve reported on monsters we killed.” He cleared his throat. “And I... know you. Cas Novak. Host of... Hunter Radio.”

Castiel nodded once, holding Dean’s gaze.

Dean slowly offered his hand.

Castiel took it, and shook it so very gently. They let their hands lower, but they held on for a couple more seconds before separating.

“So,” Charlie said cheerfully, “Guess we’re heading south-east.”

“Right,” Sam said, eyes roaming the crowds from his higher vantage point, “Us and three hundred other hunters. Guys, I think this one’s covered. We’re not the only ones who can add two and two.” He nodded towards a stall selling protective amulets, and Castiel saw what Sam had seen: a large-jawed woman in a leather jacket held out a map, showing an interested group how to triangulate known events to pinpoint an origin. The Gulf of Mexico was right under the tip of her red marker.

“As I heard it, it’s your weekend off,” Castiel smiled, putting his hands in his pockets, stroking the soft fuzz of his plushie unicorn. “As for myself – well... I don’t hunt like you, I simply report on... the— Wait— Oh, _damn_.” He yanked his microphone out of his pocket, bringing the plush unicorn with it. Dean snatched the toy before it fell, holding onto it while Castiel fussed with cables and his headphones, heart racing and eyes alert as he put his headphones on, only to hear Pamela already interviewing someone about the events that had just transpired.

Castiel heard the words _seagulls_ , _bats_ , and _Gulf of Mexico_ , and he lowered his headphones to hang around his neck again, giving his company a sheepish look. “It seems I have a few minutes to spare.”

“I-If I may,” Sam said, eyes darting to Dean, then to Castiel, “I just... I just want to say – thank you. Dean and I listen to your show almost every day, we absolutely love it—”

“Speak for yourself, man,” Dean muttered.

“ _I_ absolutely love it,” Sam corrected, gushing with bright eyes and a shaky smile. “Your work is so inspiring, not just to me, but to other people I’ve met. So many people. You and Pamela brought together a whole community of hunters – young hunters particularly – we grew up with the Internet, we grew up online. That was how we knew to communicate— Sorry, you’ve probably heard this a thousand times already—”

“Please, go on,” Castiel said warmly, touching Sam’s hand. “There’s no compliment I don’t like to hear again.”

Sam almost giggled. “Um. S-So—? You’ve become the voice of reason for a whole generation of monster-hunters. Please, please... never stop doing what you do. The research. The books. Treating non-humans like people first, monsters second. All of it. I just... I really wanted to say that.”

“Yeah, he dragged me out here so he could say it,” Dean mumbled.

Castiel grinned, eyes cast down, always humbled by the rush of delight his fans gave him. “I really appreciate that, Sam. Especially coming from you.”

“Me? What did I—?”

“You cast Lucifer into the Pit, did you not? You prevented an apocalypse?”

“Oh! Oh, right. That. Yeah.” Again, Sam’s gaze shot to Dean, then back to Castiel. “I dunno. That story always pales in comparison to Dean’s accomplishments. Talking to God, saving the world, et cetera...”

Castiel leaned in close, giving Sam a secretive look. “Don’t tell Dean, but I find your accomplishments rather more impressive.”

Sam huffed. “You’re just saying that ‘cause he doesn’t like your show.”

Castiel raised his eyebrows, giving Sam a friendly wink. “Let him believe that.”

When Castiel drew back, Sam was beaming, and Dean looked more than a little ruffled, but he smiled too.

Charlie patted Sam on the shoulder, reminding him, “It’s getting dark – ferris wheel, remember?”

“Oh—” Sam stepped back, then rushed forward once more, taking Castiel’s hand to shake it. “Thank you. I’m gonna go, but— Really. Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ ,” Castiel said softly, watching Sam leave with Charlie. With a wide, aching smile on his face, he turned his eyes to Dean.

Dean checked Sam was gone before he said, quietly, “Takes a special kinda skill to make Sam look that happy.” His smile was subtle, hands sinking into his pants pockets. “Thought me ‘n Charlie were the only ones who could do that.”

Castiel simply tipped his head, accepting Dean’s words as a spectacular compliment.

· · · ★ · · ·


	3. Along for the Ride

As the blue hour gradually encompassed Oklahoma’s corner of the world, lights came on all across the carnival field. Seagull-damaged string lights and tent tops were replaced or set aside by helpful hands, and whatever was left intact glowed warmly, every tent becoming a little cavernous sanctuary.

Presiding over the festivities, the ferris wheel stood proud and colourful, illuminated in rainbows that streaked outward from its centre. All its lights synchronised to the music that played from a boom box at the base. Solar panels had spent all day absorbing light, and now their stored power kept things running.

Without clouds, the heat of the day drifted and dissipated quickly, leaving only a pocket of warmth where a thousand people muddled together, hands full of candy apples and striped red-and-white buckets of popcorn, hugging oversized stuffed animals, or holding the tiny hands of children. Everyone’s sugared breath bloomed in clouds outside the tents, tinted gold by the electric vines. A faint breeze came visiting, waltzing through the crowds, fluttering every flag of bunting that was strung over the pathways between the tents.

The carousel stood out, the way a bonfire stood out: it was so bright it was hard to look at, every pole and every angle of its upper rim clad in spherical bulbs. The painted horses inside rarely paused, only stationary long enough for people to hop off, swapping armfuls of swag with their friends so they could have a go too. Children, teenagers, adults – all enjoyed the ride.

Though the carousel played the same music over and over, it never became background noise: it was the main attraction, this side of the ferris wheel. The teacup ride and the bumper cars were popular too, but it seemed as if nobody wanted to leave the carnival without going on the merry-go-round at least once.

Dean Winchester turned his eyes towards the carousel, but looked away. He looked away too soon to claim he’d seen it properly, and too late to feign disinterest. Instead, with his brow furrowed, he bit into his iced cinnamon swirl, nose stickied by the paper wrapping.

“Look,” Dean hrmfed through dough and plump currants. “I’s not tha’ I _hate_ your show,” he said, gesturing with his food in a forward circle. He chewed and swallowed his mouthful, then said, “Except... yeah, I kind of do. I’m a hunter, dude. I don’t need or _want_ publicity. I pride myself on bein’ hard to recognise, hard to catch, and able to disappear afterwards. All of us hunters out in the field, we _rely_ on disguises, and rely on the general population not knowing a confidence game when they see one. Your show throws a wrench in that. A whole toolbox, even.”

Though unused to straightforward criticism, Castiel listened. He ate his own swirl, with the paper properly folded back. The dough was pleasantly soft, the icing just crisp enough to crackle under his teeth.

Dean shook his head, gazing at some mid-point in the crowd around him. “Fact of the matter is, Cas, we’re barely six years into a new world order. Nowadays there’s plenty of regular civilians who believe monsters exist, and they’re willin’ to help us put the bad ones down. But the rest? Come on. You show Jenny-from-the-block a severed vampire head and she calls the cops, wailing about an untimely Halloween stunt gone horribly wrong. The world _knows_ about hunters, but we can’t take the chance of being open about what we’re doing, what we’re trying to kill. Even if we’re trying to save people.”

Castiel nodded a few times, head down. He did see the value in Dean’s statement, even though it left him and his work thoroughly admonished.

“Besides that,” Dean said, force in his words, “Your ‘ _Great Hunters of Today_ ’ segment? I’m flattered by the amount of research you obviously did, man, trying to humanise people’s heroes, show the bad sides too – but I do _not_ have a drinking problem. Who are you interviewing, my Kansas barman? Obviously he’s gonna talk shit, I started a fight in his bar _once_. Jesus, Donnie. Fuckin’ paid him for damages already.”

With an amused smile, Castiel asked, “Any other holes you’d like to blow through my work?”

“Yeah, actually,” Dean grumbled, tearing off a piece of his cinnamon swirl with his teeth, chewing it in the side of his cheek as he added, gruffly, “‘ _How to Be A Good Hunter Ally_ ’ needs to run next to ‘ _Great Hunters_ ’, not in the middle of the fuckin’ night. God knows hunters don’t need to be recognised on the job. At least if there’s some drooling kiss-ass who spots us while we’re working, they might have the decency not to come up and throw us outta character by asking for autographs from the Winchester brothers.”

“I see you’re not a fan of fame,” Castiel mused, somehow enamoured by the way Dean talked.

“Look, I ain’t complainin’ about everything, a’right. I meet plenty of civilian chicks who go full beast mode in bed when they realise I’m a hunter. Kinda hard to hide the tattoos, you know? Your show made classic hunter ink _public knowledge_ , and now even non-hunters are demon-proof. That’s a full win, in my books.”

Dean hesitated, then confessed, brutally, “And I know I’m not the only full-grown adult who listens to ‘ _Bedtime Stories for Little Hunters_ ’! My brother’s the bigger fan, obviously,” he hastened to add, “but, like, I’m _there_ while it’s on, so I’m kind of forced to listen. Shitty A.M. sound quality and all.” His eyes darted to Castiel’s, then back to his food. “A-And...”

Castiel heard the softness creeping into Dean’s voice, and sought to encourage him. “What?” he asked, gently.

Dean rolled a shoulder. “That week of segments you did, focusing on mental health for hunters. It’s okay to ask for help. You’re allowed time off. You’re valid even if you can’t help. Always keep fighting, you are not alone? Shit like that, that was...” Dean lapped at his lower lip, licking away icing. “Good. It was... good.” He blinked, not meeting Castiel’s eyes.

A warm, glowing fish of delight swam around inside Castiel. He smiled, nodding his gratitude. “I’m glad you found it helpful.”

Dean bit off the last of his cinnamon swirl. “Anyway,” he uttered, chewing, “ _Mostly_ I hate your stupid show. But... you give me n’ Sam something to talk about on long journeys. Keeps our minds off the bad stuff, sometimes.” He crumpled up the paper bag, now empty of its baked good. “And as much as I hate to admit it, your music taste is... fine. Or, y’know, fine as in good. Good as in... great. It’s awesome, whatever. Take that however you wanna take it.”

“As a compliment,” Castiel decided, making Dean smile. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean muttered, lowered eyes shifting about. “Problems aside, I do... respect your work, in a way. People can talk about how you’re not a real hunter, sittin’ in some broadcasting studio, or fleeing the scene before anyone can talk to you. Taking calls from victims, profiting from their pain rather than helping them. But... way I see it, you _do_ kind of help. There’s so many traumatised people I’ve met who never realised there was a world of nightmares lurking just off their doorstep. More than a couple times, either me or Sam told ‘em to tune in to your show.” He shrugged roughly. “Information always helps. But only when it’s told by someone who talks all calm and collected, and has well-sourced research to back it up.” He snorted. “God, I sound like Sammy.”

Castiel chewed his cinnamon swirl, lost in a thoughtful reverie, mind echoing with Dean’s appreciative words. “That means a lot to me, Dean,” Castiel said, quietly. “Everything you just said. Especially since it comes from someone I— Ummm.” Castiel found himself flushed in the cheeks, scalding behind his mask, and he had to look away before meeting Dean’s curious gaze again. “Someone who inspires me.”

Dean’s eyebrows rose. “Dude. How the hell do _I_ inspire _you_?”

Castiel gave him a soft smile. “Don’t forget I’ve been aware of your existence since well before my show went to air. You already had a reputation when I... arrived. Ever since the day the portals opened, I’ve heard your name in conversation. You stand out amongst others, Dean. You and Sam, both. And if I hadn’t been left so shattered by old battles, I’d do what you do. Saving people. Hunting things.”

“The family business,” Dean joked, echoing a catchphrase oft-quoted. “You know it was Sam who said that the first time. Somehow I always get credit.”

Castiel nodded. He knew.

Dean took a deep breath, then let it go, smiling. His smile turned to a grin as their slow footsteps wavered to a halt, near the carousel again. Castiel tossed his paper ball into the nearest recycling can. Dean promptly did the same, then folded his arms, warming his hands in his armpits. “Well,” he said, “guess this makes us even, huh? You’re a seasoned hunter. I’m a seasoned hunter. We’ve both followed each other’s careers for years. Level playing field.”

His eyes went to the carousel once more, its golden shine reflected in his eager eyes.

With a small smile, he turned his attention to Castiel again. “You wanna take a ride, Cas? Carousel’s boarding.”

He offered a hand. With a smile of delight, Castiel took it.

Dean’s skin was cold but warming, his grip sure. They stood close, walking closer, approaching the carousel lights with shy smiles turned to each other, stealing glances every few moments. A tide of children and other people washed past them, dark ghosts swarming around their steady forms.

They reached the edge of the carousel ride, and Dean lifted their joined hands like he might for a lady; Castiel laughed – and he wondered why he laughed, not knowing. He stepped up onto the platform with Dean’s help, then waited, pulling him up too. Dean pressed against Castiel’s shoulder, grinning, his head tilted the slightest bit. He was enamoured, Castiel could see it easily. Maybe that was why Castiel laughed.

Maybe he was enamoured, too.

“This one!” Dean exclaimed, pulling Castiel between the twisted gold spires of the ride, between speared wooden horses, winged pigs, horned goats. Dean led Castiel to a leaping bull, painted a glossy black, chipped around its horns, where a thousand people had wrapped their hands. “Spent more than a few hours riding bulls in my lifetime,” Dean explained, running his free hand up the bull’s bulk. He shot Castiel a sly look, then corrected, “Fairgrounds and bars only.”

“Ah, a bucking bronco aficionado, I see,” Castiel teased. He let Dean’s hand go as Dean sat himself on the bull’s back. “Me...” Castiel’s eyes wandered the carousel and all the waiting animals, some quickly claimed by little girls, some by their fathers, arms outstretched to hold their hands. Castiel’s hand drifted, stroking the carved wing of something beside him.

His fingers slid upward, feeling the ridges of bigger feathers, the curve of the wing meeting a saddle. He finally turned his head, and thought to himself, _Of course_.

He sat side-saddle upon his pegasus, hand upon its head, stretching his side against its neck. A muffled voice announced through a loudspeaker: the ride was about to start.

Castiel grinned at Dean. “I never had this experience as a child,” Castiel told him, speaking up to be heard over the first plinking notes of that overplayed fairground song.

“What did you do as a kid, then?” Dean asked, angling his head to touch the gold spire that held up his bull. The animals began to dip, the framework turning; a rush of cool night air pushed Castiel’s hair from his temple and feathers from his forehead.

“Observe, mostly,” Castiel said, supposing that was vague enough to be applied to anything, from a fairground ride to life in general. He averted his eyes, and gave a little more: “And then I fought. I was raised a warrior.”

Dean’s smile was sad and knowing. “Weren’t we all,” he admitted. He started to grin as the ride picked up speed, his bull tipping back as well as up and down; he gripped the pole and spread his legs a little more, angling his hips like he was atop a writhing beast, not a tame wooden sculpture. “Whoo!” he cried, rolling his spine, head back, laughing eyes on Castiel.

Castiel simply held tighter to the wing of his pegasus, watching the glossy pinewood below his feet become distant, then approach again as his pole sank into the floor. He’d flown through the sky with his own wings spread, and he’d shot like a bullet into the sea; this ride was nothing for him. But no doubt it was nothing for Dean too, yet he’d found a way to enjoy it.

So Castiel lifted his leg over the pegasus and straddled its back properly, hands gripping the pole, its twist smooth under his thumbs. He shut his eyes and let the movement overtake him; he imagined himself flying, not on his own wings but carried by the magically-endowed horse below him. He let it raise him, charging through clouds, breaking apart the night sky in a streak of light. At the peak: wings flared, halting mid-air, then a dip in Castiel’s stomach – _yes!_ – he let himself tumble, laughing, turning turning turning, spiralling inside the cocoon of his steed’s upturned wings.

He opened his eyes and gazed at Dean, adoring the man for his childishness, the carefree way he took pleasure in something not meant for him, how he’d closed his eyes too, maybe mirroring Castiel. A small smile pulled at the corners of Dean’s lips, crinkles beside his eyes thrown into fluttering relief as the lights on the carousel sparkled in time, in time with the music, in time with the beat of a distant bassline.

Out of time, the bull and the pegasus rode the darkness beside each other, galloping one leap after another, their painted expressions frozen in roars of exultation.

As Dean finally looked Castiel’s way, their souls shone together. In a pulse of joy, electricity burst through the ceiling, illuminating them both with gold. Again, Castiel laughed without knowing why, chasing elation like a bird through the night sky.

Finally, he was no longer grounded. He’d wanted this kind of release for so long.

One more bounce, then came a smooth ending: the horse and the bull synchronised, and slowed to a gentle halt.

The funfair returned, bringing with it the sting of brass in Castiel’s nose, the mutter of Pamela’s voice through the headphones around his neck, the heat and shadow of the mask on his face. Castiel was guarded again, grounded again. He stepped off his pegasus, and a kinky-haired girl stole it away from him within a moment.

Dean stood too, a big smile crooked on his face. He cocked his head, inviting Castiel away.

Castiel followed, hopping down off the ride with Dean.

“Where to now?” Dean asked, while paying the ride manager a fare he’d forgotten earlier. He turned back to Castiel, awaiting his response.

Castiel stretched out his fingers, feeling his skin stick to itself. “I think,” he smiled tensely, “I’d quite like to wash up. Wheresoever children have been, I find stickiness tends to follow.”

“Pff,” Dean chuckled, eyebrows raising as he bowed his head. “Thank God you said something, I was prepared to act like I didn’t care about feeling gross all night.”

“Why?” Castiel asked, leading Dean in the direction of the bathrooms. “Why not say something?”

Dean rolled a shoulder. “Y’know. Don’t wanna come across all... prissy, or whatever.”

“Prissy,” Castiel repeated, not having heard the word in a while. “Is there something wrong with being prissy?”

Dean again lifted a shoulder, mouth open this time. He seemed at a loss for words.

Castiel led Dean on through the crowds. He smelled donuts, cinnamon sugar and fried dough. “We have one more song to spare, then I have to take over from Pamela,” Castiel said to Dean, ear pressed to his headphones. He straightened his head again. “Would you let me interview you once I’m back on air?”

Dean snorted carelessly, eyes darting away. But after a moment, he looked back, more subdued. “If I say yes, do I get to hang around with you for longer?”

Castiel smirked. “Yes.”

“Then sure. Why not.” Dean said it casually. But there was a rainbow strike of delight in his eyes, reflecting off the ferris wheel. And he wore a smile that stuck around, turning from a blue line to a pink slash as they left the starlit gloom outside and entered the campground bathrooms. Terracotta tiles echoed their steps, white fluorescent lights beaming their shadows into a merged pool across their boots.

Dean gave a quick grin, then headed towards a stall. Cas broke away towards the sinks, watching his masked reflection approach, mottled by smudges on the mirror. He turned a faucet on, bathing his hands in cold water, slicked with pink soap that gooped out between his fingers and joined a readily-growing circle on the tiles between the sinks. He scrubbed up a lather on his palms, then breathed out; fog covered his face, ghost-like until it faded.

Castiel stared into his own darkened eyes, wondering if he recognised the hollow gaze that peered back. If he recognised any of this face, at all. If this was really _him_. He saw a faint smile, and wondered where it came from.

He was startled away as he heard a toilet flush and the stall door opening; Dean came forward, threading his belt through its buckle. He held Castiel’s eyes in the mirror as he pressed to his shoulder, washing his hands in the next sink along. “You all right?” he asked.

Castiel nodded. “Yeah.”

Dean’s attention dipped from the dark eyeholes of the mask to the jewel on Castiel’s cravat, then up to his lips.

He blinked away as someone else left another stall, moving to wash their hands. “How long’s this song, then?” Dean reminded Castiel.

Castiel snatched up a paper towel, dried his hands, then passed the same towel to Dean as Castiel slid his headphones onto his ears. A grin rose: the song was ending. Lifting his microphone from his pocket, Castiel slid its switch on and spoke into it. “That was _Highway to Hell_ , by Australian group ACDC. A very good evening to you, listeners. This is Cas Novak, _finally_ reporting live. If you’re just joining us, welcome; I was scheduled to go live—” he checked his pocket watch, “half an hour ago. My thanks to Pamela for covering for me.” With a wicked look cast in Dean’s direction, Castiel told his audience, “You’ll have to forgive me, I’ve spent my time in the _alluring_ presence of someone whom most of you will have heard of.”

Dean brushed a hand between them, trying to dismiss that claim.

“He doesn’t think he’s big news,” Castiel said into his microphone, a tickle of amusement putting a grin on his face, “but now we’ve added humility to his list of virtues, I can assure him he’s among the greatest of hunters this realm has to offer. Not only was he a big player in the movement to expunge the Croatoan virus from the face of the Earth, he fights near-daily battles alongside his brother, with murderous monsters of all sorts – and most notably, he came face-to-face with God Himself, and his decision did two things: saved all life on Earth in a single instant, and, unexpectedly, also kick-started events that led to this war we’re still fighting. His name is Dean Winchester: distinguished hunter, current prophet of the Lord. He is a winner in life. And now, over the next few minutes, I’m honoured to inform you that he’ll be winning all your hearts, too. That’s up next, after this word from our sponsors. Pamela?”

Once he heard an advertisement for Leviathan-melting Borax go through to broadcast, Castiel lowered the headphones and switched the microphone off, grinning at how Dean covered his eyes with his fingers, shaking his head. “You don’t think you’re so charming, do you?” Castiel asked him.

Dean flicked his eyes to the ceiling. “I’m charming, sure. Just didn’t expect you to broadcast that... you know, to everyone.”

“Romance sells,” Castiel shrugged. “Loath as I am to admit it.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Not your thing?”

Castiel pursed his lips, eying Dean carefully. “Not with anyone I’ve met before.”

“Before...?”

“Today,” Castiel said, stalking off before he could see Dean’s reaction. After a few seconds of silence, Dean caught up, both he and Castiel exiting the bathrooms and strolling through a loose crowd.

Dean stuck his hands in the pockets of his pants, a baffled smile tilting his lips upward.

Castiel replaced his headphones, waiting for the Borax guy to finish his spiel. With a practised skim of his thumb, Castiel turned on his microphone again and spoke. “Dean Winchester,” he said, eyes on Dean. “By chance, your surname is synonymous with the weapons you use; it’s a good name for a hunter, don’t you think?”

Dean gaped dumbly for a moment, then scoffed, “Well, yeah. It would kinda suck if we were the Lose-chesters.”

Castiel chuckled. “Really, though. I’ve always wondered: where did the name come from?” He offered Dean the microphone, holding it for him to speak into.

“Um,” Dean said, leaning to press his lips to the microphone, then backed up as bit as the brass bumped his nose. “Well, my first name— Was my grandmother’s name on my mom’s side. Deanna. My brother Sammy was named after her husband.” He frowned, then chuckled. “Guess that’s a lil’ weird, huh. Naming siblings after a married couple.”

“Is there a middle name to go with that?” Castiel asked, before passing the microphone back.

Dean shook his head. When Castiel urged him to speak with a shake of the microphone, Dean breathed, “Oh. Nah, just Dean.”

“Well, Just Dean,” Castiel grinned, “I’m sure you’ve been having a great time, here at this undisclosed location, which may or may not be a carnival. What’s been your favourite experience so far?”

Dean looked at Castiel carefully, their walk slowing as he thought. “This... Um. This is gonna make me sound like a total suck-up, but... meetin’ you was pretty neat.”

“Would you like to tell our listeners about that?”

Dean grinned wildly, head down. He shook his head. “Not a chance.”

“And what about your biggest claim to fame: meeting God? The rumors began in Nepal, and spread back to the States before you even set foot back on American soil. The angels like to talk about you, don’t they? If it weren’t for their accusations, nobody would know your name. After all, as the story goes, the angels waited millennia for God to return, only for God to bypass them to converse with you. With no exaggeration, I can say stories of your experience have been told millions of times over by strangers. Would you do me the honour of—”

“Heyheyhey,” Dean interrupted, taking Castiel’s hand and dragging the microphone to his mouth. “Look, pal, no amount of money, flattery, or sweet-talking is gonna get that story out of me. All I’m gonna say is that whatever you heard, it’s the truth. Or close to it, anyway.”

Castiel chuckled into his microphone. “Well, listeners, at least I can say I tried. One moment... Come this way, Dean.” He led Dean away from the crowds, heading to a tree at the edge, where string bulbs hung from the branches like luminescent fruit, lanterns glowing in shades of red and pink. A pair of bicycles rested against the trunk, a single hardback book leaning blurb-upward in the basket of one.

“Now we have some privacy,” Castiel said. “We’re apart from the bustle of things. I can still smell the popcorn. I’m a big fan of popcorn, personally. What’s your most beloved fairground treat, Dean?”

Dean rested his shoulders against the tree, hips cocked out, thumbs in the pockets. As his eyes roamed Castiel’s face, Dean bit his lip, then released it to reply, “Candy apples.”

Castiel swallowed. He knew he smelled of brown sugar, he’d dropped flakes of it down his shirt, which only smudged in when he’d tried to wipe them away. _He_ was the candy apple.

Dean reached to pluck the microphone from Castiel. “You?” he asked, waving the thing in his face. “C’mon, there’s millions of people who listen every day to find out how to kill monsters. Obviously knowing your favourite food is pertinent to _everyone’s_ knowledge. What kinda things do you like to put in your mouth, huh?”

Castiel gave Dean a narrow-eyed look. “Are you aware how dirty that sounds?”

“Answer the question, smart-ass,” Dean grinned.

Castiel laughed softly, leaning against the tree, feeling Dean’s warmth. “I’m more of a fan of sensation,” Castiel said, looking into Dean’s eyes. “If it feels nice in my mouth... I’ll eat just about anything.”

Dean’s lips parted, his breath a little uneven. “Ah,” he managed, before gulping. “Cool.”

“I ought not waste this opportunity,” Castiel went on. “You’re one of the world’s most remarkable hunters, I’m sure there’s a thousand things I could ask you. But firstly, I’ll give you a chance to set the record straight, live on air: is there anything I’ve previously claimed about you that is, in fact, not true?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah,” he said cautiously. “I don’t have a drinking problem, for one thing. Donnie, if you’re listening, you’re on my hit list, second only to whatever’s brewing down south right now.”

“Ah, you lead me to my next point,” Castiel said, interest piquing. He pressed one bicep to the tree, facing Dean now. “Bats and seagulls flying overhead, together, many miles inland. Fish swimming upstream. No doubt every hunter who tuned in earlier has caught wind that something is afoot, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t pick your brain too. What do _you_ think is going on, Dean?”

Dean pursed his lips. “Look, I ain’t claiming to be the monster expert here. That’d be my brother, he’s good at research. My friend Charlie, she’ll be the first to tell you what sort of beast is stirring up trouble. Me... My strength is more literal. Brute force. I can beat the thing up, easy, but I ain’t stepping on toes here. I don’t know what’s going on any more than you do.”

Castiel was taken aback. “You don’t really believe that.”

Dean was quiet for a moment. “What?”

“You can’t believe that, that your strength is only physical.”

Dean frowned now. “Well, what else am I good at? I like to install solar panels onto old cars for cash, but God knows that ain’t gonna win me a one-on-one battle with a shapeshifter that borrowed my face.”

“Try me,” Castiel insisted. “Throw a theory out there, see what you get.”

Dean stood firm. “Dude, that’s not what I’m about. It’s fine for you – you can come up with theories and people build on them across the country, and there’s no problem in proving you wrong. It’s all part of the debate. But me? Cas, I get it wrong, someone dies. I’m on the ground day-in, day-out, living breath-to-breath. I’m not informed enough to call the shots right now.”

Again, Castiel pushed the microphone closer to Dean’s mouth. “Try me. You have more than enough information.”

Ire singed like embers in the back of Dean’s eyes; he hated Castiel for putting him on the spot like that. But Castiel did not back down; he wanted Dean’s response.

“Well,” Dean said, settling down a bit so he could concentrate. “Working on what Charlie said, we got something lurking near the Gulf of Mexico. If we assume the birds flew in a straight line, I’d say they came from as far south-south-east as you can go, up against the Texas border. There’s, uh... eight rivers leading north-west from that coastline. Where Corpus Christi used to be, up to, like... Port Arthur, bordering Louisiana.”

Dean scratched at his chin, thinking. “Now, you said... we got fish swimming upstream. Only fish I know of that do that naturally is salmon, during breeding season – which is now. I’m guessin’ the reports meant something other than salmon, or it wouldn’t be outta the ordinary, right? These fish have gotta be big enough to notice. Not minnows. It’s probably bass, or catfish.”

When Castiel waited patiently, giving silent encouragement, Dean fidgeted, then went on, “There’s a ton of weird disturbances that bother the wildlife on a large scale. The obvious ones are things like volcanic eruptions – but we ain’t heard of anything like that around that area. Earthquakes. Right? But c’mon, if anything shook the Earth this morning, it never registered on the Richter scale. People have been drilling up shale gas from that area for longer than I’ve been walking, and it ain’t ever had that kind of effect on the birds around there.”

“So what caused the disturbance?” Castiel urged.

“I’m gettin’ to it,” Dean uttered, eyes wandering as he pondered. “Uhhh. So— Not volcanoes, or earthquakes. That leaves... sonar. That would explain the bats’ behaviour. I’m pretty sure sonar affects channel catfish, they’re super sensitive to pressure and crap like that. They’d freak out if they heard whale noises in their part of town, maybe. I dunno, it’s a stretch.” He huffed. “But say it _could_ happen. Tell you somethin’, Cas: a couple’a noisy whales don’t make the seabirds fly over four hundred miles in a mad panic. _Bats_ , sure. But not birds. They must’ve seen something.”

“So?”

“So,” Dean spread his hands, raising his eyebrows and widening his eyes, apparently realising something. He gulped, then looked quickly at Castiel. “You remember you wrote that book, the one about extinct monsters. Biblical-style beasts. The Behemoth. Unicorns, dragons, what have you.”

“‘ _Monster-Hunter’s Muse_ ,” Castiel said. “ _Great Beasts from the Past_ ’?”

“Yeah, that one,” Dean mumbled. “Available from all good bookshops. Including in floppy paperback form, from some tiny store at the train station in Bemidji, Minnesota. Good travel reading.”

Castiel smiled. “Thank you for the plug, but— Your point?”

Dean gazed at Castiel with solemn eyes. “You wrote the thing. Which of those monsters use sonar to get around?”

Castiel cycled through each chapter, flipping typewriter pages in his mind. There! A piece of artwork, a photograph from a library book taken out of circulation, ripped from the book and filed with his notes. The photograph featured some pottery from China, crafted mid-way through the Qin Dynasty. Painted delicately on its side... A sea monster...

“The Kraken,” Castiel whispered.

“The Kraken,” Dean repeated, conclusively. His voice dipped to nearly nothing as he breathed, “Oh _shit_ , the Kraken.”

Castiel took the microphone back from Dean, and spoke into it gently. “And now: _Rolling in the Deep_ , by Adele.”

He lowered his headphones and switched off his microphone as Pamela set the song to air. With haunted eyes, Castiel stared back at Dean.

“I told you you had enough to go on,” Castiel said weakly.

“Eh, lucky guess,” Dean smirked. He quickly sobered. “I hate when I’m right.”

“Promise me something, Dean,” Castiel said, holding Dean’s gaze. “Don’t sell yourself short again. You do know the answers. Don’t be afraid of speaking up.”

Dean parted his lips. He had nothing to say; he smiled instead. “Whatever. Fine! Pinky swear.”

“I hope you mean that.”

Dean chuckled, giving a shy downward flick of his eyes. “I’ll try. Instinct’s a hard thing to grasp.”

“As a clairvoyant, instinct or intuition is often all I have to go on,” Castiel remarked. “I don’t see my callers’ faces. Pamela can envision more from them just by hearing their voices. For me... Ah, it’s all guesswork, really.”

“But you’re always so accurate,” Dean frowned. “People give you next to nothing and you tell them their life story.”

“I guess correctly,” Castiel said simply. He winked, but Dean couldn’t see past the mask. As he had done once before, Castiel reached to touch his mask, considering taking it off. But he looked away instead, distracted by a shriek of excitement.

“Cas!” cried a young woman wearing jodhpurs and combat boots, stepping out between tents, running up to them with a reluctant boyfriend in tow. Her black hair was braided into cornrows, and her grin was bright between her painted lips. “Cas. It’s you! I _knew_ you were at a carnival, I could hear the drop tower ride in the background! I had no idea if it was this one— It _is_ you, isn’t it? The headphones, the microphone—?”

“Yes, it’s me,” Castiel said, giving a tentative wave. “Hello.”

“Kathy,” the girl said, sticking out a hand and shaking Castiel’s with great enthusiasm. “Ohhh, I’ve wanted to meet you for so long— I brought my copy—” She reached behind Dean and pulled a book from the bicycle basket. “Would you sign this? Christ _almighty_ , you’re so tall in real life.”

Castiel glanced at Dean, only to see Dean beaming, apparently thrilled by the girl’s starry-eyed fawning.

“Oh, I do have a pen,” Castiel uttered, pulling one from an inner breast pocket of his tailcoat, quickly putting back a toothbrush. “Now, how do I spell ‘Kathy’?”

“With a K and a Y,” Kathy said, bouncing on her heels. “How come you’re hiding back here? Party’s out there.”

“Cas and I wanted to get a little privacy,” Dean winked. Kathy’s boyfriend lowered his eyes.

“He means so we could broadcast without the sound of the crowd interfering with the audio,” Castiel clarified, handing Kathy’s book to her with a plain smile. “If it’s okay by you, we’ll be on our way now. You have a very sturdy bicycle, Kathy. Take care of it, won’t you? That, and your friend.”

Kathy turned her eyes to her boyfriend, suddenly adoring.

With a smile and a nod of his head, Castiel left, and Dean followed.

They chuckled once they mingled with the crowd again. “You don’t stick around, do you?” Dean said.

“I’ve found that the longer I stay, the harder it is to leave,” Castiel said sadly. “If she and I struck up conversation, I’d be there for hours. Every person I meet is always so full of stories, and knowledge, and I hate to let opportunities slide, but—” He looked unsurely at Dean. “If I’m to devote my time and energy to anyone tonight, I’d rather it be you.”

“Hrhh?” Dean said, rather mindlessly. “Hhm.”

Castiel laughed, bumping at Dean’s side. “I mean it, Dean. Come on, to the ferris wheel. We can broadcast while we’re waiting in line.”

They placed themselves at the end of the line; one more turn of the giant wheel and they’d get a cart to themselves. Dean plucked Castiel’s headphones from his neck, almost displacing his feathered mask as he lifted them away. Dean put them over his own ears, checking how much of the song they had left. Hurriedly, he passed them back, clapping the ear foam over Castiel’s ears – then he reached into Castiel’s coat pocket and pried out the microphone, switching it on effortlessly, as though he did this for a living.

“What’s up, listeners. Dean Winchester, reporting live from a secret location. This ain’t my job, far from it – but I got the microphone in my hand, I’m gettin’ cold – wind’s blowing in from the north. That ain’t a friendly fall breeze, my hands are freezing. Should’a worn my jacket. Three more hours of this and I’ll be freezing my nuts off.”

“Dean,” Castiel chided, giving him a fond look.

“What, you complaining I don’t have a point? I’m getting to it. This is what you do, Cas, you play for time until you cut to a break. Yet more reasons I’d give your show a six outta ten. Here’s somethin’ to spice it up tonight: I got some questions for you. Cas Novak. Host of Hunter Radio, sixty-six point six A.M.”

“Um. All right?” Castiel said, once Dean offered him the microphone.

“First up, something that always bugged me,” Dean said, one finger raised. “I get that you like to treat everyone equal – person first, monster second. Free will extends to all species, et cetera, et cetera. But whenever you talk about certain subjects – the Angelic War, fallen angels on Earth, the repercussions of all of that – you always go soft. You rarely frame the angels like the bad guys, conveniently forgettin’ they massacred thousands of us humans just to say hello. No other hunter has something positive to say about angels. How come you do?”

Castiel’s well-warmed sense of inner comfort began to shed outer layers, each heartbeat leaving him more and more vulnerable. Soon he shivered inside, left raw with only one thing to say: “I’m many things, Dean. I’m a psychic, I’m a radio host. I’m a writer. I’m a creature of the Earth, once a soldier. But primarily, I’m a journalist. My purpose is to present the facts, without judgement or bias.”

“But that’s not true, is it,” Dean said dismissively. “That’s not what you do. You theorise. You draw conclusions that go beyond the facts. You press others to do the same. You did exactly that with me just a few minutes ago. Kraken, remember. Right now the hunter networks are probably goin’ wild, books are flying off the shelves. The newspapers tomorrow are about to go Kraken-crazy because of something you had _me_ say on air. You’re kiddin’ yourself if you think you’re completely neutral on every topic.”

Castiel chewed on his tongue, silent. Dean was too smart, he was going to get there in the end. Quietly, Castiel started to panic.

“Why angels?” Dean prompted. “What is it about that subject that keeps you running scared?”

“There are... fallen angels who listen to this station,” Castiel said softly, eyes downcast. “Yes, as a group, the Host have done horrifying things to the planet and its inhabitants. But not every angel was responsible for the deaths that occurred. Not every angel wanted to fight humans once they fell. Some fought for your side.”

“So you take _their_ side?” Dean urged.

“I take neither side,” Castiel said coolly. “I keep my opinions out of it.”

“But you do _have_ opinions,” Dean said, an intrigued smirk lifting one side of his lips. “Go on, Cas. Start a riot.”

Castiel tightened his jaw. It seemed Dean was fighting fire with fire; Castiel felt a familiar ember behind his eyes, simmering in fury at an impetuous question, striking too close to his heart.

“I wish the war had never begun,” Castiel said, glaring at Dean. “I wish the portals had never opened, I wish Heaven and Hell stayed where God first put them. The grief I’ve seen on strangers’ faces has been enough to keep good dreams at bay for a lifetime, Dean. I can only _imagine_ what peace would look like. What _could_ it look like, now? The landscape of the world has changed. Everything about this planet and its societies has been upturned. Perhaps some good has come of it: the natural diversity of love is now common, and widely accepted. A pocketful of dimes is enough to buy food for a week. But—?”

He shook his head. “But as humankind rose up to fight for its right to _survive_ , it’s grown weak. As have the angels. We’ve all grown weak. Tired. God, I’m so _tired_ , Dean. I know you are, too. Not one day passes where we’re not expecting the end. Expecting a portal to turn inside-out and swallow us into some unspeakable realm. Expecting to fight our last fight, exorcise our last demon, drink our last drink. Every single one of us who remains topside, we live days like they’re our last. And what if they are? What if we all died tomorrow – would any of it be worth it?”

Voice abrasive, eyes steady, Castiel finished, speaking to Dean, and to the world: “I speak of angels and humans with a conscious effort to be unbiased, because I so desperately want to put the war behind us. The war, _and_ all its prejudices. I see neither angelkind nor humankind as an enemy.

“Think of it, Dean! Think of a day when we wake up and find friends beside us, invisible wings having kept us safe from harm throughout the night. Think of a day when an angel could turn to a human and accept them as their lifelong _partner_ , equal in every way. This world is forever teetering on the edge of collapse, the least we could do is appreciate what we have left. Why else are we broadcasting _here_ , at a carnival of all places? We must find joy, and companionship. We _must_ , or we have nothing.”

Dean stared. His paling hand gripped the microphone, unyielding, unshaken.

“Humans are terrible creatures,” Castiel said now, putting it simply. “God was wrong when He said He made humans perfect. But angels are no better. All of us are flawed in countless ways. You, Dean, you’ve listened to this show for many years. You will know by now, I don’t always agree with the idea that a monster is a monster. A vampire is not always a killer. Werewolves should be allowed an option to transform in safety, without fear of persecution. No, I do not side with human hunters in general. Nor do I side solely with creatures of supernatural origin. I side only with the loving. The peaceful. Those who take individual evidence into account before making a choice to kill. _Everyone_ else, to me, is a monster.”

With that, Castiel took the microphone from Dean, switched it off, and lowered his headphones around his neck. He took a breath... held it... then let it go. “Pamela’s playing me out. I’m done for tonight.”

Dean slowly curled his hands, tucking his fists under his arms. He seemed nervous.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel said quietly, avoiding his eyes. “I’ve wanted to say those things for a long time. I don’t know why I’ve been so afraid. Divisive or not, my opinions do shape the show, they always have. It... it feels good to bring them to the forefront, finally.”

Dean sucked in a small breath, and let it go with a puff of vapour between their faces. “It shows,” Dean said. “It shows when you hold back. I could always hear it in your voice, in your pauses, when you were thinkin’ too hard, trying to back away from a hard topic. You push other people, but you never let them push back.” A grin rushed across his face, gone again. “God, I wanted to do that to you so bad.”

“Does it offend you?” Castiel asked, tilting his head as Dean met his eyes. “Now you know my feelings on the subject, can we still coexist without starting a fight?”

Dean snickered. “Yeah. C’mon.” His eyes skipped ahead. “Look, line’s opened up. Share a cart with me?”

With a relieved smile, Castiel followed Dean to the ferris wheel, where a portly woman lifted a protective barrier, allowing them past to sit down. Castiel stayed back, wanting Dean to take the left seat. Once Dean was seated, Castiel sat on his right, thanking the ferris wheel manager, handing over two dimes as the woman buckled down the protective barrier.

Castiel shifted in his seat, tailcoat sliding on the plastic bench. He made sure his feet were steady in the metal footwell below; his stomach was already doing flips of excitement.

“Oh, man,” Dean breathed, eyes turning upward, glazing over as he stared at the ferris wheel’s inner framework. “I forgot I’m afraid of heights.”

“Too late now,” Castiel smiled, as their cart lifted off the ground, going backwards. The next cart gradually approached the ground, and once there, the wheel mechanism paused to let those passengers off, and to let the next couple on.

Dean breathed out through pursed lips.

“It won’t be so bad once you’re up there,” Castiel said softly.

Dean sneered. “Yeah, right.”

“What could distract you?”

Dean did look around, but his eyes lighted on Castiel’s mask. “Your face could,” he said with a quick smirk. “You, uh, feel like unmasking yet? Nobody’ll see you but me.”

This time, Castiel removed the mask without hesitation, leaving it on his lap. He was confident Dean could not see his scars, as he’d taken his seat so his scars were furthest from Dean’s sight.

“Hey,” Dean said, batting his hand at Castiel’s thigh. The wheel moved again; they began to rise once more. Their cradle swung gently on its support, rocking them forward and back by a few inches. “Cas, look at me?”

Castiel turned his eyes to Dean’s knees, but didn’t angle his face far enough that Dean saw the purple makeup or all the mica stars adorning his ruined skin.

“Hey,” Dean said again, more gently. His hand smelled of rose bathroom soap; he placed his fingers against Castiel’s chin and eased his face around so their eyes met. Castiel gulped, monumentally insecure under Dean’s scrutiny.

“Why don’t you want anyone to see?” Dean asked. He looked at Castiel’s makeup, then into his eyes. Castiel peered back and saw the rainbow illumination just touching against Dean’s skin, neon pink, then violet, then blue.

“Don’t you hide your scars?” Castiel asked back.

Dean grinned. “Nah. Battle trophies, man.” He showed Castiel the underside of his forearm, fingers running over a jagged scar, healed badly. His fingers slid up to his right hand, over his knuckles: the light from the ferris wheel threw a pale line into focus, slashed between his bones – and Dean moved on, showing Castiel a still-healing streak across his left palm. And then Dean closed his fist, eyes turning back to Castiel’s. “You read fortunes. Guesswork, you said. But I’d bet anything you know as well as I do, Cas: people tell their story without saying a word.”

He tilted his head, looking unashamedly at Castiel’s scar. Without really thinking about it, Castiel angled his face so Dean could see.

“You went through somethin’ terrifying, and you came out of it alive,” Dean said softly, as the ferris wheel paused another time, at the halfway-up mark. “Left a scar. And look what you did with it, Cas. You make it shine. Huh?” With a pleasant grin, Dean reached to Castiel’s temple. He didn’t touch; he only skimmed the stars until one came away on his fingertip. He looked at it, turning it gently so it caught the light, flashing blue, green, yellow.

“Make a wish?” Dean chuckled, offering the star to Castiel’s lips.

Castiel stared at him blankly for a moment, then felt... something _melting_... deep inside. He laughed, ashamed to laugh, but doing it anyway. He was too distracted by Dean’s closeness to make a wish in coherent words; he just ached for more of this feeling. He blew upon the star, his breath curling down Dean’s fingertips. The star wobbled, then flew away, sparkling once in the light as it fell overboard, vanishing from the cradle as the cradle rose higher.

Out there, past Dean’s face, Castiel saw the lights and the great expanding vitality of the carnival, steam pluming up beside smoke, beside flashing lights from a stage show going on at the far end of the field. The world beyond was black and empty, but only up to the horizon, where threads of gold wove the sky to the Earth and gleamed in the waxing moonlight.

Dean saw where Castiel looked. The high peak of his cheeks and the flutter of his once-short hair made a handsome silhouette. Perhaps he was indeed afraid of heights, but he barely showed it at this moment. His only tell: his hand slid into Castiel’s to hold, and Castiel’s heart made a sky-bound leap; they were suspended in flight, halfway to the stars.

Castiel smiled and lay his cheek on Dean’s shoulder. He shut his eyes, finding the smallest flicker of peace encompass his heart, just for a moment. Just this moment.

He felt the warmth of Dean’s breath against his cheek, the spikes of his chin brushing him. His scent was still foreign, but his breath smelled of candy, and there was something incredibly agreeable about his presence. Castiel breathed him in deeply, thinking to himself that he wouldn’t mind Dean’s scent and presence to become familiar. Someday he’d smell candy apples or a cinnamon swirl and he’d think of Dean. This stranger who wasn’t a stranger, but a friend.

They reached the top of the ferris wheel, and they were alone. Their view forward was unobstructed by another couple’s cart; the world was open to them, sparkling in a thousand coloured lights and scored by the ambience of life. This was their pocketful of joy, and they didn’t have to share it.

Castiel lifted his head enough to meet Dean’s eyes.

They didn’t speak.

They pressed their lips together and kissed. Dean’s hand curved warm against Castiel’s cheek, holding his jaw steady; Castiel scrunched his hand in Dean’s thin sweater, feeling the knitted fibres give under his thumb. His other hand slid up, he grasped the crook of Dean’s neck and shoulder, temperature rising sharply as he felt blood pulse there. Pulse. Pulse. Pulse. Castiel sank closer, his own heart pressing to Dean’s heartbeat.

Dean turned his head and the roughness of his stubble stung Castiel’s softer lips; Castiel made a noise of awe, then urged for more, making Dean part his lips.

Castiel had never felt a hot tongue breach his lips before. It felt how he’d imagined – sleek, wet, gentle – yet it was still a shock.

“Ah...?” Castiel breathed as he separated from Dean, both their lips wet, Castiel’s own lips still singing with notes of sensation. He gazed at Dean in astonishment, baffled by how this one small being, one flawed _speck_ of existence in a universe so great and complex, could be the catalyst to so many new emotions.

Dean’s eyes glowed most fiercely when the lights shone green. He looked at Castiel with something in his gaze that wasn’t like anything Castiel had experienced before. There was always reverence in the eyes of Cas Novak’s admirers, but that was not like this. This was personal. _Intimate_.

Castiel wondered if he was safe enough to reveal his secret. After all his years in this realm, he wanted someone to know. Maybe Dean was the one who could.

But there was no time left now; the ferris wheel had almost made a complete rotation, and Dean had become distracted, running his hand over his lips, eyes warily cast away. When he lowered his hand, Castiel saw he was smiling.

Their cart clacked down to the base of the wheel, then the ride manager leaned in to release their safety barrier. The moment he was free, Dean stood, offering a hand to help Castiel up. Castiel stepped out onto the boarding platform holding Dean’s hand, his free hand holding his feathered mask.

He felt self-conscious among other people, walking past a queue of adults and teenagers waiting to get on the ferris wheel. But not one of them looked at him for long enough to judge him, to look at his scars and think _there goes a corrupt being, how shameful_.

Twice... three times, he moved to replace his mask on his face, but he saw Dean beside him, felt his hand around his own, and he pretended it was too hard to put on a mask while in a crowd. They went a little farther, closer to the edge of this chaotic world. Castiel tried again, but didn’t complete the movement. Instead he put the mask into his pocket, opposite the plush unicorn and the plastic pegasus. Dean saw him do so, and he smiled, curious.

Castiel just shrugged.

Dean did not lead him to a game stall, or another ride, but to a food truck. He bought three plain hot dogs with the sauce packets separate, and bartered for a half-can of ground coffee beans, then led Castiel away again with the purchase wrapped in a paper bag.

Out of the crowds.

Into the darkness beyond.

The thump of a bassline and a vague melody was all that carried out here. Starshine was faint behind brown pollution, but the further they went, the more cicadas chirped, the more the grass rustled, and the darker it became.

Starlight lit their way now. The moon glazed the farmland in silver, outlining trees and fences with white, lost in a haze upon unshaven wheat. The wind swept the grassland into swirls, dancing around their legs as they marched, high-stepping through stalks that worshipped at their feet.

Castiel did not ask where Dean was taking him. Wherever it was, he wanted to go.

He wanted to go somewhere dark, somewhere private, quiet and safe. He wanted Dean’s breath against his neck and his hands around his waist, hip to hip, thighs parting each other. As they strode into cooler fields, heading towards the great brush-like spires of the pine trees, Castiel craved Dean’s warmth even more. It was cold out here. The breeze gamboled in from the north, and Castiel was sure he smelled arctic snow. Yet when the wind settled for mere seconds, he was embraced by summer heat again. The smell of fried dough clung to his clothes, echoes of laughter carrying from where they’d been.

Such was the time of year. A little of everything.

They came to the treeline, and Castiel was surprised to see a light from inside the forest. Orange. Steady, unflickering.

Dean led Castiel between old cars, their windows smashed, their framework chipped and rusted. Castiel reached to touch his fingers to a black specimen as they passed. She was still glossy in places. In the faint beam of lantern light, she did not seem lifeless; she was simply resting, awaiting the day someone would fix her and take her home to the open road. Castiel turned his eyes to Dean and knew it would be him. Castiel smiled, impressed by his future. Dean would do what he loved until the day life left him, and Castiel had no end of respect for that.

Here was the lantern. Someone had hung it on a crooked stick, and driven the stick into the ground beside a tent. Pine needles made up a soft carpet, though they’d been recently kicked aside a few feet from the tent opening, a circle of rocks making up a firesite.

“Sammy,” Dean called into the forest. He didn’t need to shout, his gruff voice carried far enough.

Soon, out from between the trunks of the pines, Sam Winchester emerged, arms full of broken branches. He donned a grin as he saw Castiel. “Hi,” he said in greeting. “You’re _still_ hanging around with Dean. Wow.”

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel said. He felt Dean’s hand leave his grip, sliding to hide behind his back. Castiel looked at Dean only briefly, then smiled back at Sam. “Are you staying here?”

“Are you?” Sam asked back.

“Um.” Castiel looked questioningly at Dean. “I do have a van back at the carnival. Pamela and I are driving out tomorrow morning.”

“We’re going tomorrow too,” Sam said.

“Talk about that later,” Dean said hastily. “Brought hot dogs – Sam, what d’you get?”

“Fruit salad,” Sam grinned.

Dean rolled his eyes. “C’mon,” he said to Castiel, tugging on his sleeve. “Let’s sit. Hang out for a bit.” With a grunt, Dean dropped ass-first into the opening of the tent, knees bent, arms out to balance him. He shuffled left, then patted a crumpled leather jacket right beside him, inviting Castiel to join him in the small space.

“What about Sam?” Castiel asked, looking carefully at the younger Winchester, who lay his armful of firewood beside the circle of stones.

Sam glanced at Castiel, but his eyes stayed on Dean for longer. Something seemed to pass between them; Dean gave the slightest shake of his head – and Sam looked down, a small smile on his lips.

Perhaps there was an air of disappointment about Sam when he looked Castiel’s way again, but there was none in his voice, only amusement, as he said, “I’m, uh, gonna go check out some more rides. There was a protective amulet I had my eye on, I’m hoping the price will drop as the night goes on. Besides! Charlie said there was a meeting in the Big Top later. A bunch of hunters wanted to discuss something – something about the Kraken? It’s weird. I get the feeling I missed something...” He shrugged, not noticing Dean and Castiel’s mirrored smiles. “Anyway. You guys have fun. Dean—” Sam chuckled. “Go easy on the guy, would you? He’s a radio host, not the Devil incarnate.”

Dean gave Sam a salute, which Castiel noted used only his middle finger. Sam laughed, shaking his head as he wandered off, hands in the pockets of his suede jacket.

Dean and Castiel remained silent, listening for Sam’s footsteps across the forest floor as he left.

Slowly, their eyes met. They shared a shy smile, soft gazes and captivated breaths.

Castiel didn’t know what would happen between them now, but even so, he was glad they were alone.

· · · ★ · · ·


	4. Palms of Our Hands (Where the Lines Meet)

“So you’re leaving tomorrow, as well,” Cas said quietly. In the orange light of the lantern, the pigment of his blue eyes was indistinguishable from the colour of his coat, or the gem at his throat.

“Me and Sam never stick around long,” Dean smiled, exhaling a puff of vapour across Cas’ hand, curled on his own bent knee. “As high-and-mighty as the hunter lifestyle sounds on the radio, we’re still vagabonds. Half the time we don’t even pay for the trains we ride, just hop on the back and hang on until the next stop.”

“That sounds... thrilling,” Cas uttered, eyes turning up through the trees. Dean looked up too, and saw where the light faded against the towering evergreens, their tops painted black on black, only distinguished from the sky by starlight. “I always travel for my job, but it’s never anything like that.”

“You get yourself a private compartment in those trains, huh?” Dean supposed. “Fresh sheets on the bed? Bet you sleep through the night.”

Cas laughed solemnly, dropping his chin to his chest. “You know, I don’t sleep that much. Not as much as you might.”

“I get four hours or so, every couple of nights,” Dean shrugged. He glanced back inside the tent, where his sleeping bag was rolled out on its floor mat, covered by an extra wool blanket. “I’m hopin’ I’ll catch more than forty winks tonight, though. Tomorrow we’re gonna go locate the goddamn _Kraken_ , gotta have my wits about me.”

Cas raised his eyebrows. He didn’t look at Dean, and he said nothing.

“You ever gone on a real hunt?” Dean asked, nudging Cas in the side. “Gun strapped to your leg, knife in your belt? Limp back home with blood on your face?”

The smile Cas gave was half serene, half bothered. “Not since my last battle.”

Sadness clenched in Dean’s chest. Softly, he asked, “You lose anyone?”

There was no need to see the colour of Cas’ eyes to imagine the ocean in them; tears washed his waterline, mourning gripped his jaw stiff. “Everyone.”

Dean swallowed. He slid his hand to Cas’ and held him, clutching his cold knuckles and hoping another heartbeat would bring some comfort.

“Think you’d ever fight again?” Dean asked, almost under his breath.

Cas did smile genuinely this time. “For the right cause. Yes. I would.” He looked at Dean, knowledge in his eyes. “I will.”

Heart aflutter, Dean stroked his thumb over the other man’s hand, loving the sensation of delicate bones beneath silken skin.

“You’re cold,” Dean uttered, eyes lowering. “What say we get a fire goin’? Warm up some drinks.” He pushed himself to his feet, leaving Cas behind.

Beside the firepit, Dean crouched to arrange Sam’s firewood into a tipi, pine needles as kindling at the base, bigger logs making up the bulk of the outer frame. Dean noticed Cas watching him, and he made sure to do things as properly as he could, careful not to knock the wood or arrange it wrong. Maybe he was trying to look extra competent.

“Hey, pass me the matchbox? Side pocket, backpack behind you.”

Cas turned to obey, rummaging beside a lighter and a stubby old pencil to get the matches. He tossed them to Dean, and Dean caught them with one elegant swipe. He struck a match and lit the kindling on the first try.

Okay, yeah. Definitely trying to impress the guy.

“Thanks,” Dean said, tossing the matches back. Cas fiddled with the box, thumb pushing the cardboard drawer open and closed.

Dean set up a frame over the fire, and hung a pot of water on it to heat. He passed Sam’s empty flask to Cas, then sat back down beside him with a sigh. In silence, they watched the flames eat up the twigs, starting to singe the smaller sticks. An unsubtle yellow flickered from between the wood, casting stripes of light all the way to Cas’ pointed black boots.

Dean kicked his own boot against Cas’. “You don’t do a lot of outsidey things, do you?” he grinned, seeing the lack of scuffs on Cas’ toes. “You feelin’ outta your depth yet?”

Cas snorted. “Forgive me if I’d rather sit quietly,” he said scathingly. “I’ve done plenty of ‘outsidey’ things.” He screwed his hands together on his lap, eyes rising, then turning to Dean. “I was alone for a long time. Until I met Pamela and set up Hunter Radio with her... I did what you’re doing. Sleeping outside. Moving from place to place before I could be arrested for trespassing. I only had myself to look after. No brothers. No friends. It was...”

“Lonely,” Dean finished. “Sounds it.”

Cas ran a hand back through his hair, displacing a lock so it flopped forward over his forehead. “I do miss it. I enjoy travelling. Pamela and I move around often for work, but leaving a place always feels more like fleeing than freedom. We go by road, making camp in the back of the van, or in cheap hotels. Perhaps I’ve come to associate firelight with singularity. Apologies if you wanted help setting up.”

“Pff, nah.” Dean shouldered Cas in a rough shove, glad to see him smile. “You can help me with these.” Dean turned at the waist and flopped backwards onto the cushy end of his sleeping bag, hand sliding into his backpack. He scrambled around until he found the long box he was looking for. He sat up with a huff, and offered Cas a sparkler.

Cas frowned at the thin stick. “What is that?”

Dean waggled it, making Cas take it. “A sparkler, dude. You never played with these as a kid? Fourth of July?”

Cas parted his lips. “Um. Suffice to say, I... didn’t have much of a childhood.”

Dean pursed his lips. “I’ll light the end. Be careful, alright. Stamp it out if it gets outta control.” He leaned forward, pushing two sparkler tips into the fire. A few twigs collapsed around them, sending up red sparks that quickly vanished. Twin white flares let Dean know the sparklers had lit. He separated them and kept one, handing the other to Cas.

Already the sparklers fizzed, their tips shooting off fast lines that snapped into stars, twenty at a time. Cas breathed in awe, his face lit up from below by his crackling white wand. The blue in his eyes was visible now, reflecting in shimmers.

Dean grinned at his own sparkler, then waved it, watching the imprint of the blur fade in his retinas. Cas copied him, then huffed out a sound of delight, a grin spreading across his face. He twirled it between his fingers and thumb, back and forth, back and forth.

Confused, he remarked, “It doesn’t burn when the sparks hit my hand.”

“The sparks are too small,” Dean replied, easing his own sparkler closer to Cas’, joining forces at their spluttering tips. “Surface area can’t retain heat.” The drooping lines of spent ash dropped to the ground, crimson embers vanishing after a second.

Where Dean and Cas nudged their sparklers together, the sparks doubled, their light near-blinding. Dean laughed, tapping his sparkler to Cas’, watching the sparks jump and vanish into oblivion, just three or four inches from their origin.

“Hey, watch this,” Dean whispered. When Cas was looking, Dean whipped his sparkler out in front of him, outlining the letters C – A – S.

Cas squinted, not understanding the squiggly blur.

“Eh, my handwriting is kinda wack,” Dean chuckled. “I spelled your name.”

“Oh!” Cas seemed pleased. He lifted his own sparkler, and spelled out D – E – A in cursive. The letter N faded away before he could finish; both sparklers went dark, exhausted now.

“How was that?” Dean queried. “Make up for years of depravation?”

“Perhaps,” Cas said, looking fondly at Dean.

Dean turned his eyes to the fire, where the flames grew steadily, hissing at just-damp wood. A brief lash of orange escaped its wooden prison, reaching for the sky, only making it a foot higher before burning out.

He held his own hands, locked around his knees as he leaned forward. “Cas?”

“Hm?”

Dean watched Cas’ eyes, unsure what to expect as he asked: “Would you come with us? Me and Sam. Down to the Gulf of Mexico.” When Cas’ lips parted, Dean amended, “I mean, for the radio opportunity. Obviously. There’d be hundreds of hunters down there, trying to figure the thing out. You could interview tons of folks. Sea monster’s a big deal, people would tune in for that. Right?”

Cas’ lips slowly closed into a flat line. “Yes. You’re right; no doubt we’re already heading down there, but...”

“But...” Dean lapped at his lips. “But you’re going with Pamela.”

Cas nodded, eyes down. “If we’re to transport our van full of broadcasting equipment down there within a day, she and I need to share the driving between us. Besides... I have a book to start writing.”

“Right,” Dean said, nodding. “Yeah. ‘Course. Should’ve known.” He smiled, trying to stifle his disappointment. The pot over the fire began to wheeze, so Dean wrapped a hand in a nearby rag and lifted it off.

Cas passed him two metal cups from Sam’s bag, and Dean made coffee from some of the crushed beans he’d bought at the carnival. With a grin, they settled back together, hands warming around their drinks.

“This book I mentioned,” Cas said softly. “It’s about the Angelic War.”

“Yeah?”

Cas lifted a shoulder. “There are... opportunities. For interviews, with seasoned hunters. Or a certain prophet.” He looked at Dean, and held his eyes, blowing steam from his coffee. “You and I could meet up at some point in the near future. Have a long, personal discussion. I wouldn’t publish everything, of course. It would just be for... research.”

A helpless smirk dragged itself across Dean’s lips. “Awesome. Yeah, that’d be cool. Maybe I’d tell you the story of how I met God, right? _Monster-Hunter’s Muse_ exclusive?”

Cas’ eyes seemed to twinkle.

Feeling the urge to press Cas, Dean sipped his coffee, then asked, “You say personal. What, uh... What kind of personal?”

Cas tilted his head. The depth in his eyes was monumental; Dean wanted to fall into him and let himself drown. There was _mystery_ there. _Intrigue_.

When Cas did not give an answer, Dean made up his own.

He reached to the side of Cas’ face, palm hovering over the silver stars and purple blur that hid his scars. Dean knew the heat of his hand could be felt: Cas shut his eyes at the intimacy, lips parting.

But moving past, Dean stroked his fingers through Cas’ thick hair, curling behind his ear. Cas’ eyelids flickered, lower lip twitching. Dean’s own body tingled all over, electrified by the contact. He felt the pulse behind Cas’ ear, and in his jugular vein as Dean let his palm caress the side of his neck.

“Talk to me,” Dean whispered. He held Cas’ gaze from the moment he opened his eyes, and he didn’t let go. “Tell me about you, Cas. I wanna know.”

Cas blinked twice. “About my scar?”

Dean didn’t mean that, but he’d take it. He lowered his hand. “If you want.”

Cas took a sip of coffee, then swallowed, eyes lowering to Dean’s lips. “I can never decide if I won or lost that battle,” he murmured. “I betrayed my kin. That’s—” He bowed his head, frowning. “That’s why I hide it. I’m not ashamed of how it looks, just what it represents.”

“Your family took the angels’ side?”

Cas’ face tensed, but his expression remained largely unchanged. “Yes. I was injured by angel weapons, that’s why it... never healed entirely.”

Dean smiled. “You know that’s only true for angels, right? It’s an urban myth that it’s the same for people. Humans heal normally if we’re cut with angelic crap.”

Cas didn’t meet Dean’s eyes. “I’ve heard that said, yes.”

“You gotta massage it, or somethin’. That’s how you get rid of scar tissue. It never really works for me, but hey. Worth a try, right?” Dean offered his most reassuring grin, before downing a few sips of his hot, bitter drink. It warmed him from the inside out.

With a smile, Cas cast his eyes towards the tent. The stars on his face flashed with firelight – and in that moment, one single star dropped from his temple to his cheek. Dean chuckled. “You’re shedding.”

Cas hummed, picking away the fallen star. “The glue always melts in the heat. Make a wish?”

Dean laughed, shuffling up close, so his right hip pressed firmly to Cas’ left. He gulped down the last bit of coffee, leaving the gritty dregs. “Hm.” He licked his lips, then uttered, “I wish...”

Cas shushed him, gunpowder-scented fingertips caressing Dean’s lips. “Don’t tell me. Pamela told me it’s bad luck.”

Dean gazed at him with a deepening desire, tense inside with excitement. Choosing a childish tone, purely for the sake of saying something overly saccharine, Dean teased, “But Cas, if I told you my wish, you could make it come _true_.”

With a lazy roll of his eyes, Cas finished up his coffee, then waited.

“I wish,” Dean began again, “that you’d let me...” his breath caught, and he carried on in a dry whisper, “touch you.”

Their eyes met. Dean felt the fire leap through him, flames coursing through his core.

Cas set his coffee cup down beside the fire. Then took Dean’s hand, holding it for a moment. Dean let the weight of his open fist rest in a warm palm the same size as his own, strong in a different way. Cas moved Dean’s hand, lifting it to his own cheek, grazing past...

He rested his head in Dean’s palm, eyes closed. Dean felt the spikes of miniature pentagrams pressing the heel of his hand. As he dragged his touch, the stars came away on his skin. The glue curled and dropped in globules, leaving only streaks of purple.

Although it seemed an odd place to begin undressing someone, Dean knew where he ought to start. Unlike Dean himself, who wore makeup for the fun and satisfaction of looking spectacular when he caught sight of himself in a reflective surface, Castiel used his makeup as a second mask. This was the face Castiel wanted people to see. But now Castiel would allow Dean to see what lay beneath.

Dean left Cas for a moment, lying back inside the tent, stretching out to rummage through his bag. He pulled out a packet of cotton pads and a nearly-empty bottle of makeup cleansing fluid. Sitting thigh-to-thigh with Cas again, Dean tipped out a coin-sized pool of fluid onto one pad.

Before he looked back at Cas, he bowed his head and wiped at his own eyes. Away came the eyeliner, in one neat smudge. The previous day’s darkness made an extra shadow on the white circle. The same again, for his other eye. Now he blinked, peering at Cas.

Cas smiled. “Would you believe, you look _less_ tired without it?”

“Always smudges down,” Dean shrugged. He folded the pad, raising the clean side to Cas’ temple. Cas turned his face and let Dean wipe away the colour. Five strokes and it was gone only from the surface. The pigment had embedded in the pockmarks of Cas’ skin; his scar was textured and bumpy, like he’d been burned a long time ago.

Dean poured out some more fluid onto another cotton pad, and Cas watched him do it.

“Holy fire,” Cas said, quietly, as Dean kneaded the pad against him, right hand holding his jaw steady. “My brother hit me with burning oil and called me a traitor.”

“Shit,” Dean breathed. “Christmas reunions gotta be hell, huh?”

Cas chuckled hollowly, eyes flicking up to Dean’s. “Perhaps they would be, if there were anyone I’d left alive.”

Dean’s hand stilled, sensing the ache in Cas’ soul. “Wow. I’m sorry. Losing family is... God, it’s the worst.”

“That’s war for you,” Cas said. “Trust is ultimately worthless, even among soulbound brethren.”

“I dunno about that,” Dean assured him, wiping away the kohl from Cas’ lashlines, watching his lids twitch at the sensation. “I’d trust Sam with anything. And there’s friends who’d do the same for me. Charlie, for one.” With a shrug, Dean set aside the bottle of cleanser and tossed the two used pads into the fire, where they singed and burned away. “With the right people, Cas, the right situation? Trust is worth everything.”

He took Cas’ hand and squeezed it gently.

“Trust _me_ ,” Dean said, meeting Cas’ eyes. “Trust me now, when I say you’re... you’re beautiful. With and without the glitter.” He leaned in and kissed Cas’ lips, just for long enough for them to stick. He pulled away slowly, breathing out. “And listen, despite what I said, about scars telling the story – trust me when I say there’s more to you than just this scar. You’re greater than your shitty past.”

Cas held back a laugh, eyes sparkling. “You’re speaking to a _clairvoyant_ ,” he chuckled. “I see the past and the future. I know what I am, you don’t need to tell me.”

“Sure,” Dean lifted an eyebrow. “But I asked about _you_ , and according to you, your defining moment was an act of civil war.” He looked at Cas with understanding heavy in his heart. “If you’re anything like I was before your show first went to air, you probably don’t take your own advice. Somethin’ you said once, really stuck with me...” Dean smiled into the fire, remembering. “Monsters aside. Demons and angels and apocalypse aside. War aside – you’re still a person. You’re still worth your weight in rock salt even if you can’t fight. If you won’t fight. If your fight is over. Because you’re still a living being, and your life is valuable.”

Now Dean turned to Cas and saw consternation in his face, tightness around his eyes. “Shit happens. We make mistakes, we make hard decisions. We’re hunters, Cas. It’s what we do, it’s what we have to live with. But the worst thing that ever happened to you is _never_ what defines you. It’s how you deal with it after.”

Dean gave Cas a bold smile, shaking his knee in a friendly grip. “Trust me,” he said again. “You can see the past and the future, fine. But what you do _now_? Changes who you are.”

“Who I am,” Cas echoed, somewhat distantly. His eyes settled on the fire, then lowered to the ring of stones around the gushing flames. He seemed spooked.

“You okay, man?” Dean asked.

Cas’ eyes darted up to Dean’s. “Do you have any Enochian tattoos?” he asked.

Dean’s lips parted in his surprise. “I thought you knew everything.”

“I’m clairvoyant, not omniscient,” Cas retorted.

Laughing, Dean shook his head. “No! C’mon. Enochian’s the Devil’s language, like I’d get that shit carved on me. Who would?”

Cas touched his hand to the jewel on his cravat. He hesitated, then worked it loose, untying the knot with both hands. Dean watched, fascinated, heart beating harder with every moment that elapsed.

Cas removed the headphones from around his neck, then began to undo his shirt buttons, top down. He lay his cravat over his knee, and Dean felt body heat seeping from the cloth against his own knee. Oh, that was intoxicating. His eyes followed Cas’ hands as they descended, pulling apart his shirt.

Cas showed Dean his chest...

It took Dean a moment to divert his attention away from Cas’ freckled nipple and the impressive swell of his pectorals. Only then did he see what Cas meant him to see. Dean’s skin chilled, voice vanishing under his tongue.

The language of angels had been inked in black along each of Cas’ ribs, crooked glyphs and symbols following the curve of his bones. From his sternum down, the two sides of his ribs were joined by something that looked like a simplified Jewish menorah, a sunburst, the sigil of Lucifer, and a cross.

Unsteadied by the sight, Dean breathed a few times before he could ask, “Wh— Why the hell would you do that? Get tattoos in _Enochian_.”

“This hides me from angels,” Cas said calmly. “It may be the language of your sworn enemy, Dean, but when used correctly, there is value in it. There’s power in it. These tattoos are the reason I’m still alive. The reason I haven’t been hunted down and killed by angels, the way you hunt monsters.” With earnest eyes and pleading in his voice, Cas said, “You are not the only one afraid of being found. I’ve betrayed the angels. I’ve given away the position of hunters and compromised their lives. I’m as much a target for a gun, an angel blade, or a set of claws as you are.”

Dean swallowed, wary eyes lingering on the tattoos.

“You asked who I was,” Cas said. “What defines me.” He answered, chin set defiantly. “I am tired. Afraid. And always running. But I do what I can to stay safe, and to help others in the meantime.”

Dean nodded slowly, hands wringing together. He stilled them, and looked at Cas again. “Come with us. Tomorrow morning, first light. Go off the grid for a while. You can trust me and Sam. We’ll have your back.”

Cas smiled carelessly, easing his shirt closed, leaving it unbuttoned.

“You don’t trust us?”

“I can’t,” Cas said, without making eye contact. “And I won’t.”

Dean worked his jaw around nothing. “Trust is earned, right? How can I prove to you I’d stand by you?”

Cas took a breath to give a word of rejection, but Dean stopped him, thrusting his hand palm-up into Cas’ lap.

“You read palms, right? Check out these lines. Right here.” Dean spread his fingers, forcing his hand into Cas’ grip. “Read my fortune and tell me whether I’d betray you like your brothers did.”

Cas looked at Dean with caution stilling his eyes.

“Please,” Dean said.

A breath of resignation escaped Cas’ lips. “This is not a magician’s trick, Dean. Whatever knowledge I garner from this will affect both our future decisions.”

“Do it,” Dean insisted. He wondered if he was mad to insist; what if he _would_ do wrong by Cas, on a day still to come? Perhaps it meant something now, though, to be so confident in himself that he could promise his support. Perhaps Cas would see Dean’s trust in himself as enough to warrant the same in return.

Cas stroked his hand over Dean’s palm, sending tickles up every nerve, making Dean’s fingers twitch. As Cas gazed at these grooves, stroking Dean’s lifeline, loveline, whatever other lines there were – their breaths slowed, and they inhaled deeply, breathing woodsmoke, tangy and rich on the back of Dean’s tongue.

Cas’ hold was tender. His examination was careful. He blinked slowly, keeping his eyes closed for long periods. Dean felt a buzz in his hand, as if a current flowed between him and Cas.

Dean watched Cas begin to smile.

“What?” Dean asked, smiling too.

“You love me,” Cas grinned.

Dean breathed in. He lowered his eyes, lips shivering, cheeks flushing hot. His belly felt tight, his tongue speechless. He didn’t know if Cas meant _now_ or _later_ , but honestly, it all felt the same. Cas held his hand and Dean could’ve sworn they’d been holding on forever.

Soon, Cas’s closed eyes cleared of tension, and his smile grew. “I love you too.”

Dean had been waiting to hear those words following the last. He kinda felt like he’d already heard them, though. A long time ago. Someday soon.

A soothing thumb made a journey across Dean’s palm, following a wrinkle. In the firelight, Dean saw the tiniest frown squeeze between Cas’ eyebrows, smile falling away.

“Something bad?” Dean asked, afraid to know.

“You’ll leave me,” Cas said sadly.

Dean’s heart clenched.

Cas opened his eyes, gazing at Dean’s cupped palm. He stroked Dean’s hand again, and he shook his head. “What we share in the meantime is worth it, though. I always believed that.” His eyes were set intently on Dean’s, desire or determination making Dean’s skin flare hot.

“Envisioning the future is only one way to know what will happen,” Cas explained. “Things may turn out different. I plan my schedule for months in advance, but I still live every day expecting it to be my final one. I see us together for a long time, Dean. But I also see us apart. I suggest we bank on both being true.”

Dean gave a mournful smile... but it swiftly became devilish. “Sooo... Last night on Earth, Cas. What are your plans?”

Cas laughed softly, bowing his head. The crinkles beside his eyes remained as he lifted his gaze. “I suggest we find joy. And companionship. Else we are left with nothing.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” Dean uttered, leaning in to steal a kiss.

He was given his kiss freely. It came with a hand soft on his cheek, Cas’ body aligning with his own. Cas removed his tailcoat without breaking the kiss, shoulders rolling free. Dean lay down against the cushioning of his sleeping bag, pushed there by Cas’ kisses, a breath, the increasing downward pressure of eager hips.

This was new. New, in the sense that Dean had never felt a person atop him so weighty, at least not without feeling hands around his throat. This was new, in that Cas’ hands cradled the _back_ of Dean’s neck, and his touch was gentle. New, in that each kiss and each measured surge of their hips gave rise to a distinct sensation at Dean’s base – but that rise was mirrored. Pushed back. _Hard_.

Dean gasped and tried to look down to see, but Cas was too close. Angled Enochian script peeked between the open sides of Cas’ black shirt, and a visible flush coloured his neck. Dean saw the texture of the skin on Cas’ throat, and, unable to help himself, ran his curious fingers in a stripe over his Adam’s apple.

New.

Cas breathed out, shaky. Warm air coasted against Dean’s temple, followed by kisses. Soft, soft, prickly kisses. Dean rushed with pleasure at the sound of them, a sweet _smick, smick, smick_ trailing to his ear.

Exhaling against Dean’s earlobe, Cas smiled. Dean didn’t know how he heard a smile, but he heard it.

Dean whimpered, adjusting his thighs to wrap over Cas’ wide hips. Both of them trembled; excitement buzzed through Dean’s belly, sizzling in his fingertips and behind his eyes. Most forceful of all was the _pressure_ between his legs, lifting, lifting, continually trying to push up into Cas.

A delicious sound of delight escaped Cas’ lips, golden, like honey against Dean’s neck. Breath warmed there; a slow moan _curled_ through Dean’s system, wrapping every cell in a fist and squeezing. He couldn’t breathe any more, yielding to the surge of the other man’s body.

One unhurried, deliberate thrust up against the seam of Dean’s pants rendered him mindless.

With a sure grip of otherwise trembling hands, Dean took Cas by the back of his head, combing through soft hair, loving how it coiled in his palms. He moved his grip down, boldly easing a tension from Cas’ neck, then taking hold of his shirt collar.

Without shame, without hiding his desire to expose Cas to the very crux of his being, Dean pushed the shirt from his frame, hands stroking his back all the way down. Cas straightened his arms, letting Dean drag the shirt away. Hands roamed Cas’ back, arms pressing in, holding him close for shoulder kisses, neck kisses, breath against his throat. Dean inhaled the sultry scent of Cas’ hair, the natural oils at the base of his neck, sweat from the day. He was tart and spicy, and breathing him in made Dean purr, spreading his legs a little more.

“Dean,” Cas whispered. They’d barely started – but now he stopped.

“Nnn... c’mon,” Dean uttered, left hand pawing at Cas’ shoulder, warm muscle under his touch. “Don’t stop, Cas...” He gazed at Cas in yearning, ready to bare all and let go. He’d wanted this for so long, waiting for the right guy, waiting for his walls to be torn down by some unravelling force. Cas was that force. He was all forces, all at once.

“I— I need to tell you,” Cas said, speaking lowly, his attention wandering Dean’s cheeks from barely four inches above. “There’s something of great import... We can’t do this until you know.”

Dean licked his lips, eyes drifting to the peak of the tent above. He knew what was coming. The firelight crackling a few yards from their interlocked boots licked orange stripes onto the taupe canvas; Dean watched the flicker until his eyelids fell closed, and he exhaled. “Whatever it is,” he gazed back at Cas, solemn, “tell me.”

Cas shut his eyes for a moment, pained. He seemed distraught, but that seemed to ease once he opened his eyes again. “My full name, my real name...” He breathed again, delaying. But he held Dean’s gaze, determined as he finished, “It’s Castiel.”

“Cas... _tiel_ ,” Dean repeated.

Cas nodded. His attention flicked between Dean’s eyes, left, right, as if he’d see a different response in each. But Dean withheld his reaction, afraid of how vulnerable he was now; trapped under a mighty being.

“You’re an angel,” Dean whispered.

He was not shocked. Startled, yes. Startled to have been told in a manner so outright. Cas had confirmed a vague, buried suspicion Dean had built for many months. The way Cas Novak talked about angels always made it sound like he had some personal affinity for them, had spent a lot of time in their company. Tonight, everything Castiel had expressed about himself and his childhood only supported the idea. And now...?

Castiel swallowed, averting his eyes. “Apologies,” he uttered, voice grating at the back of his throat. “I only— I had to tell you before we did this. Intimacy, i-it’s... It’s different with angels. More intense. I don’t know if humans can handle it.”

Dean gritted his teeth, glaring at Cas’ chin. “I can handle it fine,” he murmured.

Castiel raised his eyebrows; Dean met his eyes unthinkingly.

Stunned, Castiel asked, “You don’t want me to leave?”

Dean parted his lips. He’d fought battles against Cas’ kind for years. From what he’d seen, they were uncaring, unsympathetic killing machines, once rule-following myrmidons. After they’d dropped as humanoid meteoroids to the Earth’s surface, they’d gone rogue, fighting to survive using one tactic only: killing everything in their paths. Saying that Cas was different was like comparing the rising sun to a river infested with crocodiles. Of course he was different.

Pressing his face and his fingers to each of Cas’ cheeks, Dean whispered, lips dragging on hot skin, “I want you to stay.” He gave Cas a kiss, just to be sure he understood.

Perhaps Dean too had an affinity for angels. Certain angels.

Now he lay back down, eyes holding Castiel’s, hands caressing his face. Castiel stared at him in awe, lips separated. With a quick smile, Dean brought Cas’ head down so they could kiss.

Dean sighed against him, shutting his eyes and opening his mouth so Cas would take over.

And take over he did. Cas kissed hard, a cry of passion muffled by their locked mouths, hard breaths, furious huffs rushing along Dean’s cheek as Cas turned his head, smooching and biting against him. Their bodies tightened against each other, Dean’s legs squeezing as arousal soared once again; Castiel squirmed so his erection put pressure _right_ where Dean needed it. They both moaned – relaxing – tensing again.

Dean tipped his head back, crying out, “ _Aaah_ ,” with his eyes tight shut, eyebrows raised. “Yes...”

Cas thrust his hands under Dean’s sweater, wrenching his shirt out of his waistband. Dean’s breath shook and shivered as Castiel bowed to his middle, pressing his face against Dean’s exposed midriff, kissing open-mouthed, scratchy stubble and soft lips. Dean whined, legs spread as far as they could go, hands sinking into Cas’ hair. “Auh, Cas—” Dean felt pre-come spurt into his underwear as Cas kissed downward, nipping and nuzzling as he went.

Confident hands took Dean’s belt, loosening it and flipping it open. Dean thrust his hips upward so Cas could yank his pants down, underwear too.

Dean lay with his arms raised behind his head, smiling to himself as Cas unlaced his boots and pulled them off, letting them tumble somewhere onto Sam’s blanket, one by one. Socks followed.

Cas kissed Dean’s hip, nosing at him. The contrast of his cold nose on Dean’s searing hot muscles made Dean bite his lip, groaning out, “Hmmm—”

Kisses arrived, wet in the intimate crevasse below Dean’s hipbone. Castiel breathed out one note, one laugh. He raised his head and met Dean’s eyes, and Dean was sure both their bodies surged with heat. Cas’ pupils had gone dark with lust. Under his attention, Dean felt as exposed as a starlit sky, divested of his cloud cover on a chilly autumn night.

“Let me...” Castiel uttered, warm hands reaching to hold Dean’s bare sides.

At first Dean flinched, expecting to be tickled, but he grinned as Castiel grinned – and Dean allowed Cas to run his hands up to his armpits, then up the undersides of his biceps, pushing away his shirt, together with his sweater.

As the still-warm clothing bunched over Dean’s face, Dean felt a whisper of night air touching his skin. His nipples grew harder, his breath caught. Even once Castiel released him from his fabric prison, kissing his neck, Dean still stretched, loving the bareness, the utter vulnerability of lying unclothed before a loving enemy.

“Mmmm...” Castiel’s purl of satisfaction found Dean’s throat, vibrating through his skull. Dean sighed, letting his head loll as his hips weakened, then shifted, humping against Cas.

Dean ran his hands to Cas’ belt, undoing it by feel. The cap of his buckle was shaped like the planet Earth, the bumpy swell of the metal marking the continents, the smoother relief, the sea. At least Dean was not the only one with a forbidden affinity. Cas hid away the disdain of his brothers behind a feathered mask, for that was what scarred him – but he wore his own betrayal proudly. He was a lover of humanity. From now and forevermore, there was no going back.

Cas rolled onto his back with a grunt, lifting his legs over him to remove his own trousers and boots. He kicked them away, then stuck his thumbs into his underwear and shucked them loose. They fell to Sam’s side of the tent, but Castiel paid them no mind: he rolled back to Dean, skin slicking audibly as they slid together, bare and hot and hard.

“Aah,” Dean puffed, shocked by the sensation of an erection nudging against his own. He held onto the back of Cas’ neck for balance as he looked down, watching in amazement as their bodies pushed, skin pinkened and flushed, _swollen_ against each other. Dean’s cock thumped, trickling pre-come onto his pubic hair, where it stayed.

Castiel gave Dean endless kisses, locking their gaze when they could, shutting their eyes when their lips touched. Dean smiled into the contact, embracing his lover with every limb, soon losing himself to the pressure of sturdy hands on his thighs.

“Cas,” Dean huffed, as vision blurred. “C’mon...”

“What?” Castiel urged, thrusting slowly against Dean.

“ _Hmhh_...” Dean batted at Castiel’s hair, finger-combing it from his forehead. A lazy smile crept up Dean’s cheeks, and he murmured, “How ‘bout we snuggle up in my sleeping bag? You’re gonna catch cold with your butt exposed like that,” he joked, bumping Cas’ ass with his bare foot. It was delightfully firm.

Castiel wet his reddened lips, eyes moving to the sleeping bag with the side unzipped. He reached for it, lifting the top flap. Dean snuck out from under him and scooted backwards into the plush blanket cocoon, sighing as he stretched out his legs into a comforting tightness.

Castiel came closer, all rosy skin and mystical tattoos. He laughed under his breath as they fought to get inside the same space, but alas, the sleeping bag wasn’t big enough for two. Castiel settled for one leg in, one out, and he pulled Sam’s blanket closer to cover them both.

They hid together under the grey wool, panting hotly across each other’s cheeks. They kissed, starting a frot afresh.

“ _Auh_ ,” came a quiet joy from Dean’s mouth. “Ah, yeah, Cas.”

Snug in the dark, Cas’ hands roamed around Dean’s torso until he hugged right up to him, embraced as they found pleasure in rubbing, pushing, squirming with their cocks heavy between their bodies. Shift, shift, shift, the blanket hissed against their skin as they moved.

“Haa,” Dean exhaled. “Mmm...”

Castiel gave him more kisses, but each seemed hesitant now, offered a second off-beat.

Yes, it was dark under the blanket. Yes, Dean barely knew this guy, this angel – yet he did. He did know him. He could tell something was unsettling him.

“Cas, what’s wrong?” Dean asked, kissing Cas’ ear.

Castiel laughed uneasily, fluffy hair wafting against Dean’s forehead. Their rhythm faltered the slightest bit, and Castiel knew it was frustrating, so he wasted no time before explaining: “I’m not afraid you’ll betray me, Dean. I’m afraid I’ll be the one to let _you_ down. Hurt _you_.”

Dean sighed, eyes closed. Given he’d never had a kiss before today, Dean could assume Cas was also uninitiated when it came to to this whole sex-partner thing. Clearly he didn’t know _not_ to talk about hard-hitting emotional stuff when they were trying to mount to their climax. Then again, Dean _had_ asked...

“It was me who slayed my brethren,” Castiel admitted, as his movement eased to a halt. “They tried to kill me for siding with the humans, trying to protect you. It’s not that I don’t trust you, Dean. It’s me I don’t trust. I’ve betrayed the confidence of others, and I fear _I’ll_ always be the enemy, to everyone. Like you said... being neutral is not an option. I can’t take both sides in this war forever.”

“No,” Dean agreed. With a stiff smile, he exhaled and wrenched away their blanket cover, exposing them to their shoulders. Castiel peered at him warily, his edges highlighted by the fire flickering beyond the open tent flaps.

“Look,” Dean said, stroking his hand back through Cas’ hair, “the world we live in, it changes every day. Right? The situation is hard to keep up with, it moves so fast. Six years ago we had the Internet, and computers that didn’t need a sunny day to function, and portable personal phones with maps on them. We had a President who wasn’t possessed by the actual Devil. Six years ago...” Dean inched a shoulder against his travel pillow, “I was scared of bein’ open with my brother, about some random crap that has no bearing on anything now. Like the fact I like dudes.”

“I... don’t see...”

Dean pressed his lips together, eyes rising to the top of the tent. The canvas swayed gently, pushed by a breeze. “You wouldn’t know, Cas, you were up in Heaven. But... ten years ago? Seven, even. Up until the _day_ the angels fell and the Angelic War began, people like me weren’t treated so good. Sub-human, in some cases. Hell, for me? I didn’t even know folks _could_ like men and women at the same time, I thought I was a late bloomer who hadn’t figured himself out yet. I got lucky, maybe. I know people who got the crap kicked outta them for admitting somethin’ like that.”

“So you’re bisexual, what—”

“That’s what I mean,” Dean nodded. “Even _you_ know that word, and you practically just got here. Because that’s how much the world has changed since you landed. Humankind finally figured, you know what, there’s bigger problems in the world than a bunch of dudes who like dicks. We’re all gonna die eventually, might as well enjoy a few orgies in the meantime.”

Castiel turned his head, still confused.

Dean shifted in the sleeping bag as his erection finally flagged. “Point is,” he forced out, “Humans versus angels on Earth. We’re in the early years. Peace ain’t happening anytime soon. But, Cas— I get you. Angelkind are just out for themselves, doin’ what they need to survive. Blending in for their own safety. Same as my queer ass was, not so long ago.”

With a reassuring smile, Dean lifted his head and gave Cas a long, soft kiss, holding pressure against his lips before lying back down. “Someday you’ll breathe easy, Cas,” Dean promised him. “You ‘n me could turn the tides if we put our minds to it.” He grinned. “Think about it, though. The famous Castiel Novak, host of Hunter Radio: an angel who fell twice. First to Earth, then – y’know – in love.”

Castiel chuckled, abashed.

Dean became suddenly enlivened. “And who did Castiel fall in love with, your listeners ask. You go right ahead and tell them, Cas. You tell them: Dean Winchester, world’s most charming prophet of the Lord. A hunter. A human man. Totally has a thing for rough-voiced angels.” Dean grinned wretchedly, feeling a twinkle in his eyes. “I’m not sayin’ it’s a good idea, but – if we came clean to the world that there’s somethin’ between us, we’re either ostracized or martyred. If we’re lucky, maybe revered as heroes. You ‘n me could start a revolution. Maybe it’s a stretch of the imagination, but we cou... we could help end the war. Bring angels and humans together. Begin to, at least.”

Castiel smiled widely, resting his head against Dean’s cheek. “Talk of revolution, how appropriate for our first night together.”

Dean blurted out a laugh, smacking Castiel lightly around the ear. “You were the one who quit fuckin’ me to talk politics. Don’t put this on me. Ass.”

Castiel smooched Dean, nuzzling him after. “Would you like me to continue? Fucking you, I mean.”

Dean snickered, relaxing as Cas began to rub against him again. “Can’t tell you how many times I fantasised about you sayin’ something like that to me, Cas. Sam kept the radio on all night, keepin’ us awake as we hung off the train – _ah_ , yeah – and I... I’d listen to you... mmm... T-The way you talked...”

Dean shivered, tensing as Castiel’s hand reached between his legs, stroking his plumpening length.

“Th-The way you... you laughed to yourself... God, even if I never knew how your voice sounded for real, I loved the... the rhythm, the... hm... the way you spoke. The words you chose, the way you said my name. _My_ name.” Dean’s lips trembled as he exhaled past Castiel’s ear. “Always felt so lucky. Stupid as it was, as dangerous as it was, Cas, I liked that you knew me.”

Castiel’s grin widened, then eased away, eyes content as he gazed into Dean’s soul. “Dean Winchester,” he said, warmly. Tingles rushed up Dean’s spine, lighting a smile on his face. Castiel smiled back, kissing his lips. “Dean Winchester.”

“Auuuhh,” Dean moaned, rendered a hot, sweating mess by Castiel’s thick, ridged thumb. He pulled across the opening of Dean’s urethra and tugged down the foreskin, shifting his hold against the pulsing head. Tug, tug, tug.

Dean’s hands vibrated against Castiel’s neck, twisting in curled hair, hips working to give Castiel’s erection some sensation where it lay tucked between Dean’s upper thigh and his perineum. Sweat beaded on Castiel’s forehead, lips plump, eyes so dark Dean couldn’t tell pupil from iris any more. They were bathed in body heat, and none of the clipping cold of the night could affect them any more.

Castiel let Dean’s erection go, lying on top of him again. Heartbeat to heartbeat, they rocked and kissed and stroked each other’s skin. Dean’s hands slunk all the way down Cas’ well-toned back, while Cas held Dean’s shoulders, thumbs shifting, breaths panting over Dean’s face.

“Deeaaaan,” Castiel cried, lowly – the first break in a seemingly stoic third mask. His puppydog eyes peered at Dean in helpless surrender: a second break. He was coming apart quickly – breaths laboured, movements erratic. He pleaded with Dean silently, each breath fluttering across his tongue before it left his mouth.

“Dean,” Castiel whispered, scrunching up his eyes. “Oh...”

“Yeah,” Dean urged him, kissing his eyelids, his brow bone, the fearsome blush in his cheeks. “That’s it, Cas. If it feels good, go with it. Don’t hold back, alright? Don’t hold back.”

“Mmm,” Castiel whined, head down against Dean’s shoulder. “Mhhmm. Dean – ah— Auh!”

Dean chuckled, enjoying this immensely. He breathed out clouds into the space above him, feeling himself _steaming_. “Ahh... mmm, Cas...”

Castiel wheezed a laugh; bowed head, forward shifts – thrust, thrust, weight of his torso up on one elbow, pressing his belly and hips down, _forcing_ his cock against Dean’s. Castiel’s hands clutched the back of Dean’s head, raising him to kiss.

They kissed deeply, fighting for breath through their noses as they moaned nonsense down each other's throats. Dean clenched around Castiel, one leg leaving the warmth of the sleeping bag just so he could wrap it over Cas’ ass, flipping up the blanket. Squeezing.

“Yes,” Dean breathed. “Oh, God, yes, right there. _Right_ there—! Don’t change anything, just keep goin’! Keep goin’! Ah! Yes! Yesyesyes _Cas_ —”

Castiel sobbed, holding so tight to Dean that neither of them could really move, just rocking, just bumping, pushing and pushing and holding each other’s gaze because there was so much _there_ , so much between them that Dean didn’t remember creating. It was like they’d been friends forever, like they’d met and fell into old patterns. Dean stared into Castiel’s eyes and saw limitless possibilities.

In a turning rush within his mind’s eye, he saw a freight train arriving a quarter-hour early, he saw a spoked rubber tire, upturned and spinning freely between the tracks. He saw a window with a lace curtain erupting outwards in a hard gust of wind. He saw his own hand, reaching to snatch Sam’s wireless radio from a motel nightstand, turning it on to hear something important. He saw snow drifting down over a blue road. Ice blue under his brown boots, a long way ahead to run. And he saw a black car speeding down a lush summer-green road, a car and a road he recognised, but couldn’t place yet. But he would. One day he’d feel that car’s pedal under his boot and he’d turn to his left and see his brother. Turn further and see an angel in the backseat. Their angel.

His angel.

_This_ angel.

Castiel’s eyes flipped from dark to light, bright light—

A sound began, whistling. Whistling, like a glass-shattered chorus of one note, sparkled with higher single notes. A twinkle of a sound, extended. Extending, on and _on_.

The light in Cas’ eyes grew brighter, and seemed to fill the tent: the canvas blanked out with gold, then searing crystalline white. Dean’s halted breath stuttered into an alarmed pant – figures rose from Castiel’s back, shifting from between Dean’s fingers. He felt their softness, their cool touch.

Out they stretched. Feathers: bold in shape, glowing as if they were phosphorescent, like they were mirrored and Dean himself was the sun. Only Castiel was the source of the light. He blazed from within, and the brighter the light, the louder the noise. Dean heard the roar of _holy fire_ in his ears.

Oh, Castiel was mighty. His wings spread wide, stretching the sides of the tent but not breaking them. How easily he could rip the cloth, though. These appendages were the size of a full-grown man, each, and they curled around the canvas, holding Castiel and Dean in a bubble of beaming white.

Dean laughed, a child in a crib, reaching out to stroke the fluffy friend around him.

Castiel’s smile was serene, his skin radiant. He looked incredibly relaxed this way. At ease.

Dean skimmed a handful of long, sleek feathers in his hand, lowering his fingers to his chest. He grinned at Castiel, finding himself in a singular position that perhaps no man had been in, this side of the millennium: he was _protected_. The creature he’d spent his evening falling for was none other than a guardian.

This was Cas’ purpose. To defend.

And to love.

And to... _oh_...

Dean sighed, shutting his eyes to the blinding light, as Castiel began to kiss his neck once again. It all came back: Dean balanced on the brink of climax – calling out, tensing, breathing in gasps. Castiel rode against him just as desperately, wings flaring with each movement, rocking the tent in place. The fire outside leapt and scattered with pine needles in its bed, wafted by this monstrous pair of bellows.

“Cas—” Dean shivered, fingers digging into Castiel’s back, clawing at him, under the pressure of impending orgasm. “Cas!”

He all but buckled, legs coiling up, kicking the sleeping bag off him. Pleasure gushed through his body from his hips outwards – heart, to head, to the tips of his curled toes, summoning static to his skin as if electrified. Cas’ wings folded, then flared again as Cas came too—

Dean yelped, stung by hot fluid that glowed for a moment on his belly, but quickly cooled. It was like hot wax, flung out across Dean’s skin. Cas’ ejaculate was far, far hotter than Dean’s.

Dean laughed as he sank down, hands frail, thighs sinking apart. Castiel kissed behind his ear, purring soft, affectionate noises.

Still his wings glowed. _Still_.

Dean’s breath shivered, and finally he let out a sigh. “Holy crap,” he whispered.

Castiel gave Dean one more kiss, then exhaled. He was grinning as he lifted his head. The slits of his brilliant eyes narrowed, then strobed as he blinked a few times. After a moment, the glow faded a bit, and at last Dean could see a recognisable blue.

One more breath – two, three – four, and with a wash of darkness, the wings vanished. The tent flopped back into place, metal tent pegs tinkling down to the forest floor outside. All Dean heard now was their heavy breaths, out of sync. The fire had gone out; only the lantern’s light remained. An owl hooted outside... and soon, Dean heard the gentle _sks-it... sks-it_ of a single timid cicada.

“Wow,” Dean said to Castiel. “Talk about a big finish.”

Castiel laughed feebly, an awkward grin crooked on one side of his mouth. “I hope I didn’t scare you.”

Dean pursed his lips and stroked back Cas’ slightly sweaty hair. “I look scared to you?”

Castiel smirked. “A little. Yes.”

Dean bit his lip. “Not enough that I’d turn you down if you wanted to do that again.”

With a roll of his eyes, Castiel flipped over and lay on his back beside Dean, the bulk of their shoulders overlapping, heads turned so they could see each other. Cas was about to speak, but his open mouth only widened, and his eyes squinched up tight. “Auuuuuuh,” he yawned, closing his eyes.

Dean snorted. Then he yawned too. “Ugh, now I’ve caught it. I’m not even... aauhh... tiiiiired,” he said, while yawning again. “Dammit, we still got hot dogs to eat...”

“Five minutes,” Castiel mumbled, snuggling up against Dean, cheek on his shoulder. “Cuddle, and a nap, and _then_ hot dogs.”

Dean couldn’t help his wobbly, adoring smile. “‘Kay.” He kissed Castiel’s nose, smiling wider when Cas smiled. “Aw, ain’t you a lil’ angel.”

“Don’t patronise me,” Castiel retorted.

Dean snickered, wriggling ever closer. “Don’t you dare sleep all night, Cas. We only got until the morning. I... you know... don’t wanna waste the time we have together.”

Castiel opened his eyes, gazing at Dean. But he found nothing to say. So he shut his eyes again, and slipped his arms around Dean’s waist.

· · · ★ · · ·


	5. Sam's Evening

All around, voices shouted, vicious hands grabbed for clothing, teeth bared and lips drawn back. Red stripes drained down the canvas that loomed above the crowd. Chairs had been tossed back onto the trampled grass, kicked again by angry boots. There was no moment to get a word in edgeways, and all Sam could do was repeat over and over, “I just want to see it! I just want to _see_ it!”

These were not the monsters. These were the monster-hunters. The spectacle they discussed was at least four hundred miles southward, a night and day’s journey away. Yet all they could do was shout over each other, every hunter clamouring for their right to be speak and be heard. Adding to the chaos, non-hunters surrounded the fray, throwing popcorn and heckling the people who tried to bring peace. Sam ducked a plastic dragon as it was hurled at his head.

“I just want to see it!” he bellowed, frustration boiling out of him. “We don’t know if killing it is necessary, it might not mean any harm—”

“As if you could know that!” bellowed a bearded hunter with claw marks scarred across his face. “This kind of beast ain’t been sighted since I was in Africa hunting Nazis, what would you know—”

“Silence! _SILENCE!_ ”

A gun fired, blowing a swift hole through the roof of the Big Top tent. A group cry of alarm followed instantly, knees bent, a hundred bodies ducking down.

“My tent!” cried a forlorn voice from the back of the crowd.

All eyes turned to the woman who stood on a chair beside a glass-box popcorn cart, one boot up on the protruding red table. Her jaw was sturdy with determination, her bush of black hair as wild as her eyes. She lowered her gun, blowing away smoke. “If you _goons_ can’t get it together, the tent’s not the only thing I’ll blow a hole through.”

A single quiet voice disturbed the quiet. “This shocking interruption from a woman known as Billie the Reaper.” Sam turned and saw Pamela Barnes with her brown hair and one ear clamped by her headphones, thin pink lips pressed to a wireless microphone, muttering into it: “The crowd holds its collective breath, hearts in our throats as we await her demands.”

“The Kraken,” Billie said, removing her knee-high laced boot from the popcorn stand, then jumping from the chair to the grass. The crowd around her murmured in fear, backing away like a forcefield had pushed them aside. “What do we know about the Kraken.”

“She doesn’t ask, she instructs,” Pamela said, eyes locked to the other woman as Billie made her way through the crowd. “Who will be brave enough to speak in her presence? Who has knowledge of the great beast that patrols our southern border?”

“You.” Billie’s arm lifted, wrist crooked so she could point down. “You, with your hand raised.”

“A young boy,” Pamela uttered, standing on her tiptoes she could see. “Black floppy hair, pallid skin, the movements of a cornered cat. His thin eyes widen as Billie takes him by the shirt and lifts him onto a makeshift podium. Twenty minutes ago this tent was a mecca for peckish carnival-goers, looking for hot donuts or a quiet claw game, out of the open air. Now it’s overrun by hunters with their ears turned to this trembling boy, can’t be more than sixteen.”

“His name is Kevin,” said an Asian woman, pushing a bigger man aside so she could inform Pamela. “His name is Kevin Tran, and he’s my son. He’s in Advanced Placement!”

“He’s in Advanced Placement at school, his mother informs me,” Pamela smiled. A few hunters around them chuckled. “We’re still waiting on his word.”

“Come on, Kevin!” shouted Charlie, her red hair visible to Sam between the mottled greys and browns of other hunters. “Keh-vin! Keh-vin!”

A chant began, people applauding and cheering for Kevin. Sam whistled, two fingers between his lips.

Kevin managed a timid smile, hugging a dog-eared book to his chest.

Billie rose up beside him, her dark brown hand squeezing his shoulder reassuringly. Kevin began to speak at last, and the crowds fell silent, listening.

“Th-The Kraken,” Kevin said. “It’s a sea monster from Norwegian legend. The first records of it come from a Norwegian king in the twelfth century, when it supposedly terrorised ships and ate sailors whole. It’s probably a giant squid—”

“Squid as big as an _island_ , yeah right,” came a voice from mid-crowd.

Billie swung her pistol towards the voice. “I don’t like your tone, stranger. Still your tongue, or go home with a bullet stilling it for you.” That part of the crowd collectively broke out in a sweat.

Kevin exhaled. “There’s s-some stories of it being that big, yeah. A mile across, at least. Except, humans haven’t seen or heard of this creature since the first use of sonar sweeps in nineteen-forty-six. We sensed it, shot a barrage of torpedoes at it, then never sensed it again. We thought they’d gone extinct. But – w-what if one survived, went into hiding after World War Two?

“Anything that big always lives a long time. Giant turtles live a hundred years, right? Blue whales about the same, give or take a decade. Certain deep-sea creatures – jellyfish – are biologically immortal, barring death by disease or being eaten. There’s probably millions of massive things down there that humans know nothing about, and have never seen. Given the theoretical rate of growth, and the size they’re meant to get—?” Kevin breathed out an unsettled laugh, “It wouldn’t be a stretch saying Kraken can live for centuries. It could’ve been swimming deep, or maybe it went into hibernation. We don’t know a lot about them, we don’t know why it stopped showing up on radars.

“There’s people who say there can only be one Kraken in existence at a time, which... despite what you might imagine? Isn’t completely impossible. The idea of a virgin birth was never a myth. There’s so many kinds of creatures who reproduce asexually. Including the Komodo dragon – it’s actually _so_ cool! If there’s no males to mate with, the female fertilises her own eggs, and the DNA is different enough that they’re not clones—”

“Stay on topic, kid,” Billie urged, to a round of nervous laughter. “We’re talking sea monsters, not dragons.”

“It is relevant,” Kevin insisted, looking up at Billie. “This sea monster is potentially massive. So gargantuan that it could result in a significant rise in the sea level if it entered a bay, or a harbour. It could cause tsunamis, easily. But, like, there’s so many questions— Why is it near North America, why did it leave Norway? There’s a good chance it entered the Gulf of Mexico to breed and lay eggs, somewhere safe, where the water’s warmer and the currents aren’t as strong as further at sea. That’s what they use sonar for. Not just as echolocation – but _to contact other Kraken_.”

Under the hubbub of a crowd realising they were out of their depth, Pamela went on muttering, “The audience members talk amongst themselves, going undiscouraged by Billie, who slips her pistol back in her leather holster, buttoned down. Her eyes wander the grass. She’s as stunned by the revelation as the rest of us. What danger would this world be in, if the seas were overrun by more beasts like the Kraken?

“Don’t be fooled by the idea of a tiny sea monster, listeners. There’s nothin’ cutesy about this. The legends stretch back almost a thousand years. Even the idea of of a peaceful monster can’t balance what Kevin said about tsunamis. As the sea level continues to rise, along with the long-term effects of global warming, we lose cities month by month, week by week. Once over a hundred miles away, the city of San Antonio, Texas, is now a mere fifteen miles from the encroaching coastline.”

Bit by bit, portions of the crowd turned to look at Pamela.

Sam caught Pamela’s gaze as she continued, her tone stone-cold sober: “We’ve already lost Houston and Pasadena to hurricanes and subsequent flooding. Tampa, Florida. We mourn Seattle, all but abandoned: a ghost city of skyscrapers, lower floors underwater at the rise of every tide. Long Beach, L.A – gone. All the small islands. A significant part of Delaware – now an island state. Of course, New York, New York lives on, strong, never sleeping, navigated by pedal-boats and solar ferries rather than the yellow taxis most of us will remember.”

Pamela took a slow breath, then said, voice cracking, “Hunters of the United States, you know as well as I do: our coastal cities have been through a lot, these past ten years. A new clutch of young, growing sea monsters may be too much for them to take.” Pamela lowered her watering eyes. “I’ll be back in thirty seconds with more, after these messages from our sponsors.” She fiddled with a solar-panelled box of knobs and buttons attached to her hip, thumbing down a slider and flicking up a switch. She lowered her microphone and lifted her gleaming gaze to Billie.

Billie stared back at Pamela, giving her a smile of solidarity that the whole crowd saw, and accepted for themselves. Their world was vanishing. Even though he was often many miles inland, Sam still felt he had to protect the people on the coastline, and keep their country from going under. It was his duty, not only as a hunter, but as a human being.

Sam returned his attention to Billie and Kevin as he saw a movement of bright red: Charlie Bradbury climbed up onto the platform with the others, fearless of Billie’s hand reaching for her holster. Charlie turned to address the crowd.

“I know I’m not alone in saying something needs to be done,” she said, speaking up so they could hear her at the back. “This monster – monst _ers_ —” She shook her head, scrunching her hair in her fist atop her scalp. “As far as we know, they’ve never done us any real harm, at least within this generation. They’re just looking out for themselves, same as everyone. But we cannot wait until the Kraken hurts _us_ personally before we make a move. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a fan of persecuting a beast without fair trial. I _literally_ wrote the book on monsters’ rights. But...” She lifted her arms out in a wide shrug, signalling her helplessness. “Come _on_. The thing’s coming up on our _turf_. Resurgence of its kind could be devastating worldwide. Its mating call _alone_ is messing up what’s left of our waterway ecosystems.”

“So, what,” Billie asked, challenging Charlie. “Kill the thing?”

“No! I’m not saying kill it— God, no. I’m saying... move it. We have the tech, or a spell that could work – right?” She looked at Kevin, then Billie. “Use magic to banish it. And send out some sonar radiation in the middle of the North Atlantic, figure out how to make it sound like a returning mating call. If this creature gets itself caught in the Gulf Stream, it’ll get washed through to the North Atlantic drift – those are some _strong_ currents. With any luck it’ll get shipped straight back to whence it came. Norway’s been handling their sea monster situation for the better part of the last nine centuries. I say we leave it to them.”

Sam raised his hand. Billie’s sharp eyes turned on him, but Sam spoke anyway. “What about the babies? It’s here to breed, right? What’ll happen to them?”

His question was met with silence.

Billie looked at Kevin. Charlie looked at Kevin. Sam looked at Kevin. As did the rest of the hunters and non-hunters alike.

Pamela narrated the situation to several million people, and the entire country looked at Kevin.

Kevin lowered his eyes to the book he held, and rolled an unsure shoulder. “Around Norway, colder water comes down from the Arctic as it melts... If the Kraken swam away from that environment to mate, or to lay eggs, there’s probably a good reason.”

“So they’ll die,” guessed a non-hunter, calling from the peanut gallery. “The Kraken’s eggs won’t hatch.”

Kevin glanced over to that side of the striped tent, giving a tense smile.

Billie shook her head. “We don’t have the luxury of allowing it to breed. Don’t kid yourself, people. This isn’t a time for kindness or compassion. If you feel bad for this thing, suck it up. Hunting isn’t a job for softies. Look, these beasts have survived in cold water until now. At the very least, moving it out of the Gulf of Mexico would buy us some time to figure out what better way to deal with it.”

“We should put a tracker on it!” suggested one hunter, and their shout was followed by clamours of agreement.

“Who’s going to do this, exactly?” shouted a woman down the front. “We’re in goddamn Oklahoma, betcha anything there’s hunters already out there on boats, tossing fiery harpoons at the thing. What makes it _our_ problem?”

Shouts of argument, shouts of agreement. Billie’s hand shifting fast towards her gun silenced them all.

Only one person dared disturb the forced lull, and it was Pamela, her husky voice breathing commentary into her microphone. “But something hasn’t occurred to anyone yet. Tonight, here at the Oklahoma Autumn Carnival, several of the country’s most legendary hunters are in attendance. Sam Winchester himself is here, looking my way as I speak.”

Sam blushed as several dozen people glanced around to see him.

“This is the boy who allowed Lucifer to possess him, and then cast the Devil into the Pit through his own great force of will. Obviously, he wasn’t to know the Devil would crawl back out and possess the President, but suffice to say, the Devil chooses his vessels mighty well.”

With a grin, Pamela carried on, clearly fuelled by the fact everyone had stilled to listen. “And Dean Winchester. No matter the town you visit, whatever beast once lurked in your nightmares, rest assured, Dean Winchester has been there and left his mark. This was the man who met God, the very day God wished to end the world He’d started. The portals to Heaven and Hell opened to Earth, making the three planes of existence a single one. There was no longer the possibility of life after death; death could mean an absolute end, for all of us, in an unannounced instant. And Dean looked God in His eyeless face and told Him to stick it where the sun don’t shine. Dean Winchester told God we would rather fight and die on our own terms, living on in the hope that we’ll make peace someday. If you live and breathe today, listener, Dean Winchester once saved your life.

“There are heroes in our midst. And if anyone’s going to banish the Kraken from our waters, I’ll bet anything the Winchester brothers will be right in the middle of the maelstrom. Because let’s face it, whenever anything big happens, they always are.”

· · · ★ · · ·

As the conference ended, Sam was assailed with a hundred handshakes, arms-pats, and a few words of jealous disdain. He took it all in his stride, giving pleasant smiles and words of thanks. He felt the last hand bump him. He glanced around – and was surprised to see Pamela there, coiling the wire for her microphone around her fingers, then tucking the bundle into the pocket of her camo jacket. She wore a big grin, and gave Sam a wink. “You’re welcome, grumpy.”

Sam smiled unsurely, eyes darting around the Big Top as the crowd cleared. Billie, Kevin and Charlie remained, chatting by the popcorn machine. “Flattered as I am, ma’am?” Sam started, “I think you’re putting Dean and me on too high of a pedestal. We’re not heroes, we just do our jobs, same as you.”

“Oh, please,” Pamela chided. “The way Cas talks about you two, equalising everyone, maybe I’d think that was true. But I’ve seen the papers. I’ve followed your cases as closely as any reporter. Sure, you’re human. But you’re a step above the rest of us. Can’t argue with the facts, peaches.”

Sam still shook his head, frowning at his shoes. “Trouble finds us. We don’t go seeking out the biggest, baddest monsters to defeat. Well... we do, obviously— But not— No, you’re taking it the wrong way—”

Pamela laughed, a smoky chuckle that rode up her throat in puffs. She pat-patted Sam on the cheek in a friendly manner. “Relax, pipsqueak. I get it. You’re mortal, weak, and flawed as anything. But,” she shrugged, lips pushed together, “I’m in the business of keeping people entertained. World’s shit. I make sure people feel like something’s being done, even if it’s not.”

Sam narrowed his eyes as Pamela left him, heading for the group around the popcorn machine. “Wait—” He trotted after her. “Doesn’t that mean you’re lying to people?”

“Was anything I said factually incorrect?” Pamela asked, stopping in her tracks with her thin eyebrows raised. “‘Cause in that case, I got some damage control to do.”

“Well... no...” Sam scratched the back of his neck. chuckling. “Dean and I always do kind of end up in the middle of the madness, through no fault of our own. And Dean did have a one-on-one with God, that one time. And I did – uh. Shuck off Lucifer. All of that.” He shrugged. “But you can’t tell people we’ve got their back all of the time. We’ve only helped to prevent _three_ apocalypses, if you include the Croatoan outbreak. No way we can guarantee stopping a fourth. With regards to the Kraken— I’ve never been on an actual seaboat. And Dean gets motion sickness going up and down.”

Pamela raised her eyebrows, eyes twinkling. “Then stand on the shore and look busy.”

Sam stared.

Laughing one more time, Pamela uttered, “People know your name, kid. You represent something hopeful to millions, whether you want to or not. Same as for me, and Cas, and your pretty-boy brother. Fact is, it barely matters _what_ you do, you just gotta work to keep fire burning in people’s hearts. For me, it’s about getting up every day and talking like everything’s under control, even if I’m dead inside and half the world’s underwater. In Cas’ case, he’s gotta write more books, and make sure people have something to look forward to when they turn on the radio. He keeps people’s spirits up, as best he can. You and Dean?” She tipped her head, smiling. “You already act like you know what you’re doing, even if it’s obvious to me you haven’t got a damn clue. Keep that up, and the world keeps turning, waiting for your next move.”

Sam didn’t have time to process Pamela’s words entirely, as now Charlie approached with Billie in tow. Kevin ran off to join his mother, who handed him some cotton candy at the tent’s exit, then kissed his forehead.

“Solar train passes through here tomorrow,” Charlie said to Pamela, hands in the pockets of her tweed pants. “Heading down south. First one’s at six a.m. – you miss that, next one’s at eight.”

“The eight o’clock is the final train out of here,” Billie said, in a slow, solemn way that seemed neutral for her. “But according to the station manager, it’s a freighter, and there’s only one passenger car. I recommend we catch the first one.”

“You’re all going?” Sam asked.

Billie hummed, raising one perfect eyebrow. “A thousand hunters will congregate on the coastline to see off a sea creature thought extinct for eighty years. Would you really want to miss it?”

Sam managed a smirk. “Guess not.”

“Your brother,” Billie said, raising her chin a bit. “Where was he tonight?”

Sam let out a breath of laughter. “Busy. I think.” He glanced at Pamela and smiled. “He’s with Cas. I came out to this carnival so I could meet Cas myself, then Dean goes and hogs him all evening. Couldn’t pry them apart.” Sam shrugged. “Not that I tried. Haven’t seen Dean that lovestruck since...” He hesitated. “Actually... ever? Wow.”

“Seconding that ‘wow’,” Charlie smirked, lifting one open hand. “I rarely dish the dirt, especially when it comes to my friends, but _honestly_ , they were falling for each other the second they laid eyes on each other. Before that, even, taking Cas’ feathery mask into account. Dean was lost from the start.” With a huff of amusement, she shook her head and turned away. “Right! I’ve had enough of business. Time to kick back. Who wants popcorn?”

“Me,” said Billie, following after Charlie. “Smothered in butter.”

Pamela nudged Sam in the side. “Look here, Winchester. I’m no Cas Novak,” she said, “but I’m the other half of Hunter Radio, and I’ve got a few minutes going spare. Care to have a tête-à-tête over a tub of hot, buttery popcorn?”

Sam laughed, nodding with his head down. His grin widened as he looked back at her. “I think I’d like that. Any question for Cas is a question for you, right?”

Sam didn’t wait until Pamela replied before letting loose. “I mean, first off, you gotta tell me about how it works for you. What’s it like, being a psychic? How did you first _know_ you were a psychic? You were a kid, right? Do you get weird dreams that came true later? Because when I was a kid I’d get dreams, really specific ones, too – it stopped after a while, though. Hang on, let me find my notebook, I’ll draw a timeline...”

· · · ★ · · ·

Dean yawned as he crawled out of the tent, trousers unbuttoned, shirt half-open. He stood to stretch, blinking hard as he breathed in the open forest air. The fire had blown out earlier when Cas flapped his wings, so now Dean got to work, re-piling the wood in the lantern light, which went on radiating orange, its outer casing pecked at by moths.

Cracked charcoal bordered the edges of the remaining wood, firepit piled up with ash. A few embers glowed at the heart of it, and Dean avoided them – but a log shifted and a shower of them rained onto his fingers—

“Ah!” He blew frantically on his skin, trying to cool the burns.

“You okay?” Castiel asked, peeking out from inside the tent, hands paused mid-way through buttoning his shirt.

“Yeah—! Log burned me, I’m fine. It’s fine. Happens all the time. Hrrhh. _Fff_.”

Castiel left the tent and approached, one hand enclosing Dean’s. “Here... let me...”

Dean fidgeted. “Cas... Wait, what’re you... doing...?” He gasped as the throbbing in his fingers faded. He watched the bubbled red skin stick back to his flesh, fingerprints returning to their usual swirl.

With a smile, Castiel let his hand slip from Dean’s – and he lowered his palm down, aiming it at the pile of wood. In a _fwumph_ of sparks, the fire re-ignited, quickly growing to a steady flame, as if it had never been put out.

“Haaaah...” Dean said, dumbfounded. He looked at his healed hand, then at the fire. From the fire to his hand.

Castiel simply kissed Dean on the cheek, smiling. He took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders back, then dropped to the ground to crawl back into the tent.

Dean took a moment to reconfigure his knowledge of the world, and angels. They really did have the power to heal. All this time he’d thought that was a myth. And telepyrosis, too—?

Dean crawled back into the tent, right beside Castiel. Cas remained half-undressed, shirtsleeves rolled up, bare feet sliding into Dean’s sleeping bag. He held Dean’s eyes as he lay down, looking all enticing and seductive.

With a grin, Dean kicked off his socks and scrambled through the blankets, laughing as Cas tickled him – _tickled_ him, God-dammit! Dean giggled, curling up in a happy ball, feeling a burst of warmth inside him as Castiel draped his body with his own, kissing his neck.

Dean stared at the firelight flickering on the tent canvas, a smile on his face. He curled his hand into Castiel’s, and breathed out, content and at peace in his presence.

“I spy, with my little eye,” Dean said, “something beginning with U.”

“What?” Castiel mumbled, nose on Dean’s shoulder.

“That starts with W, dude.”

Castiel shifted. “What?” he said again.

Dean grinned, rolling part-way onto his back to gaze at Cas. “You never played I-Spy? Seriously?”

Cas blinked. “No,” he said, with considerable squinting.

“You gotta guess what I’m thinking of,” Dean explained. “I said it starts with U.” He reached forward, grabbing Cas’ plushie from Sam’s sleeping bag. “It was this. A unicorn.”

Castiel’s fingers stroked the soft toy, smiling. “I see.”

“You go,” Dean said, setting aside the toy and rolling all the way onto his back, gazing up at Castiel with a dopey satisfaction brewing inside him. “You spy, with your little eye.”

“I daresay this isn’t an appropriate time to mention I have fifteen eyes, and they’re all relatively large,” Castiel said. “My true form is approximately the size of your Chrysler Building.”

Dean’s lips parted. “Uhhhh.”

Castiel chuckled.

“All right,” Dean said, tone curious, “so if you’re secretly a mighty wavelength of celestial intent, and can defy the logic of irreversible chemical reactions, how come you eat? And get cold?”

Castiel drew an unsteady breath. “I choose to.” He rested his cheek on Dean’s shoulder, snuggled up beside him. “I spy, with my fifteen eyes, something beginning with F.”

“Fire?”

“Future,” Castiel corrected. “Also P for the past.”

Dean snickered. “Cas, you’re meant to give me a chance to guess a few times.”

“You wouldn’t have ventured into the abstract,” Castiel said.

Hell, he wasn’t wrong, Dean thought. He turned his head, listening beyond the canvas walls of their shelter. “I hear, with my little ears...”

Approaching footsteps.

Castiel squirmed in Dean’s sleeping bag, looking at him in concern. A self-conscious hand drifted to the scars on his temple.

Dean shook his head. “It’s okay,” he said, soothing Castiel with his palm on Cas’ chest. “It’s fine, buddy. Scars, no makeup, bare and hairy legs – Sam won’t give a single shit. Promise you, he’ll be more concerned about—”

“Oh,” Sam said, hands holding up the tent flaps. “Am IIIII... disturbing something? Uh.”

“About two hours too late for that, lucky for you,” Dean said, snuggling closer to Cas. “Get your ass in here, you’re blocking the heat.”

Sheepishly, Sam crawled into the tent, and sat down with his arms wrapped around his bent legs. He stared at Dean, then at Cas, at the way they squished together, sharing blankets.

Castiel sat up slowly, blushing, eyes dipping from Sam, to Dean, to the tangled bedding around them. “Ummm.”

Dean sighed and sat up. “Look, let’s get this over with. Cas and I fucked. Right here. Yeah-yeah-yeah, ewww gross, whiny voice, I _sleep_ here, Dean— We’re done already, get over it.” Dean clicked his fingers and pointed at Sam. “Me, I got reading to do.” With that, Dean reached for Sam’s backpack and pulled out his copy of ‘ _Monster-Hunter’s Muse: What Doesn’t Go Bump in the Night – A Compendium of Diurnal Monsters_ ’.”

Castiel chuckled when he saw the book. But rather than speaking to Dean about it, Cas smiled over at Sam. “Have you read that one?”

Sam nodded. “I made Dean stay up for the midnight release. He rolled his eyes every time he saw me reading it.” With a wily finger, Sam poked Dean in the ribs. “You owe me, like, ten trips to Biggerson’s. And you _will_ try the salad shake, under pain of death.”

“Pff,” Dean said, turning a page. He flopped onto his front and rested his chin on his hand, leaving Sam and Cas to talk.

“Um. Sorry,” Sam breathed through a nervous smile, “I can’t help but notice— Those tattoos? Enochian, right?”

“Oh! Yes,” Castiel replied. “They’re protective sigils.”

“ _Dl’v’gar... baelioreas_ ,” Sam read, tilting his head to look at Castiel’s ribcage, “ _od etharzi... pild_.”

“You can read it?” Castiel sounded astonished. “Do you know how to translate it? That part means—”

“Wait, wait—” Sam sat up straight, mouth moving as he worked it out. “Protect and provide peace... Uhhh. Comfort. On Earth.”

Castiel chuckled. “You know Enochian.”

“He knows everything,” Dean mumbled. “Why d’you think I call him the smart one?”

“You’re both smart,” Castiel said firmly. “Sam just doesn’t second-guess his instinctive knowledge.”

“I have a thing for dead languages,” Sam shrugged, wriggling to remove his boots and set them aside. “I learned Enochian before the angels fell, I didn’t realise it would come in so handy. I just thought I’d use it to recognise demon sigils.”

Castiel gave a nod, then breathed out a solemn sigh. “I’m sorry the angels have become such a burden to humanity. I truly wish there was something I could do to stop the fighting.”

“What? Hey, it’s not your fault,” Sam scoffed, surprise in his tone. “Something you said in one of your books – you said don’t let the weight of the world fall on your shoulders. Right? Everyone else shares the burden. And it’s up to each of us, individually and as a group, to make things better.”

Castiel lay a warm hand on the small of Dean’s back, scrunching his shirt. “Yes,” he agreed. “But I think the burden falls quite rightly on some more than others.”

“What do you mean?” Sam remained unconvinced. “I know you’re in the public eye, but there’s no reason _you_ need to stop the war. Come on, the actions of other people aren’t your responsibility. No way.”

Dean lifted his eyes from the book, gazing at Castiel over his right shoulder. He saw caution and questioning in the returning stare. Dean shrugged. If Cas wanted to tell Sam he was an angel, fine. But Castiel lowered his eyes and did not.

“I have some power in this situation,” Castiel said. “I have influential sway over millions of would-be angel killers, and angels who tune in to keep tabs on the hunters. Revolution begins with a single action, it always does. A single being makes a change, and many more do the same. I _can_ help others to end the war, I’m sure of it. I just haven’t yet found the right words to say.”

“Well...” Sam inhaled, then chuckled. “What do you _want_ to say?”

Castiel smiled, Dean heard it in his breath. “I think I... I want to tell people who I am. What lies behind the mask.” Softly, he stroked Dean’s back, fingers under his clothing to feel his heat. “I want to be called by my true name and not fear retribution, or an angry mob with burning torches.”

“Cas Novak,” Sam said. “That’s your name... isn’t it?”

The tent fell silent, but for the crackle of the fire and the crisp turn of paper as Dean pretended to read. He looked up, head turned over his shoulder just as Cas took a breath, and corrected Sam.

“Castiel.”

Dean swung his head to his left see Sam staring at Cas, mouth slowly falling open.

Sam shut his mouth. He opened it again to puff out a breath of astonishment. “Oh,” he said, eyes darting to Dean. He read truth in Dean’s face, realising he already knew. “ _Oh_ ,” Sam said again. He lit up as he turned back to Cas. “Oh! It makes sense! Oh my God, it _all_ makes sense. Sort of. Not really. Wait, what?”

Castiel laughed, falling to lie down by Dean, warm against his side.

Sam went on fritzing, puffing and panting and muttering things like, “Obviously, your show only cropped up after the angels— The way you never talked about— The way you interviewed— And Dean! And— Oh my God. I get it, that _is_ how you’d— Holy crap. An angel. An actual angel. But you’re—? You’re nice. And gentle.”

Dean smiled. “All that and more, once he’s all riled up and horny.”

“Ew,” Sam wrinkled his nose. “I did _not_ want to think about either of you in that context.”

“I have Pamela to thank,” Castiel said quickly. “For almost everything. If it wasn’t for her I’d be like nearly every other angel out there, lashing out in fear and self-defence. She gave me purpose, and a sense of belonging – and that’s all any of us need. But...” Anguish crossed Cas’ face. “She doesn’t know what I am. I hid my secret so desperately. She saw potential in me and she harnessed it, but she doesn’t know why I have the power of foresight, I’ve never told her.”

“What,” Dean said disbelievingly, “so you’re saying you’ve worked closely with a _psychic who reads minds_ , for _years_ , and you never let slip that your last known address was Capital-H Heaven? But you meet me and Sam for a handful of hours at a carnival, and oh, yeah! Let’s tell these mortal enemies of mine my deepest secret, ‘cause one of them’s cute. Seriously, Cas, you got issues.” Dean gave a blithe grin, shaking his head, eyes on his book. “Anyway, you have a collection of _angel blades_ , man, it’s kind of a tell. And when Pamela asks about your childhood, what do you tell her then? You were raised by a church choir on a cloudy mountain? ‘Cause that’s about as close as you could get. ”

Castiel considered that. “If she knows... she accepts me for who I am, completely. And she’s never mentioned it to me. But Pamela is in a position where that makes sense. She knows me. She cares about me, she sees me as a personal friend.”

Sam smiled widely. “Well, I’d bet anything your devoted listeners feel that way about you, too. Maybe if you said what you want to say... they would accept you for who you are, too.”

· · · ★ · · ·


	6. Locomotion

The first light of day caressed the canvas. A hazy coral glow was broken into mottled patches, swaying as the breeze nudged at the pine branches all around. The front of the tent had been pulled open; Sam had left the flaps pinned back when he went out, so Castiel could see the shade on the forest floor. The fire had burned down, and now only tendrils of smoke eased gently, twirling and floating into the wild sky.

Castiel rolled over in his cushy pool of blankets, smiling as he saw Dean awakening. Dean blinked dazedly, rubbing sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Nnh...” Dean inhaled, puffy eyes squinting as he gazed at Castiel. “What time is it?”

Castiel lifted a bare shoulder, too blissful to care. Dean was so perfectly warm and snuggly.

“Hm,” Dean said. He squirmed closer, a dastardly smirk lifting as he held Castiel’s gaze and _pushed_ against him. Castiel gasped, feeling Dean’s erection fully hard against his hip.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” Dean purred, nosing at Castiel, giving him a faint kiss. “You wanna...?”

Castiel’s mouth opened as he looked down, feeling a gush of body heat and the smell of old popcorn exhaling from their sleeping bag. Dean’s sneaky fingers tugged at the waistband of Castiel’s underwear, awaiting his word.

“Okay,” Castiel said, nervous and thrilled. He looked back at Dean, then gasped and lay back as Dean slid his cool hand down to touch him. Castiel’s hips surged, legs spreading, back arching; he shut his fluttering eyelids and whined a helpless noise. Dean took him and worked him stiff in seconds, with a slow hand and a confident grip.

“Oh, you like that,” Dean drawled, voice still heavy with fatigue. “Mmm. How’d you sleep, Cas?”

“Oh—” Castiel chuckled, eyebrows rising although his eyes stayed shut. “Oh, good— Good, hmm—”

Dean pressed a kiss to Castiel’s cheek, sticky and fresh like dew. He nosed there afterwards, kissing down, smooching all the way to Castiel’s neck. Castiel gasped yet again, weak hands gripping the backs of Dean’s elbows, holding him close as Dean jerked him off. Fast, hot surges of pleasure ran through Castiel’s body, making him throb all over. He breathed hastily, trembling a bit.

“That’s it, Cas,” Dean whispered, tickling Castiel’s ear with his breath. “Just come when you’re ready, don’t worry ‘bout the mess. Yeah. Mm.” Kisses, kisses, sucking on Castiel’s neck.

Castiel looked for Dean’s gaze, and the moment he found it, he held on desperately. He didn’t want to let go, just wanted to see that light in Dean’s green eyes, a familiar love. Castiel felt so at home being looked at like that. Dean’s stare darkened, his smile lazy as he bent his head – he shut his eyes and kissed Castiel’s throat. Softly. Castiel tipped back his head.

Keeping his hand moving, Dean hunched back inside the sleeping bag. The padded fabric lifted away as he scrunched down, one hand undoing Cas’ half-undone shirt, following his hand with kisses. Castiel cried out, hands screwing into Dean’s hair, panting urgently as a flush of heat filled him up.

Dean skipped Castiel’s belly, nose trailing straight to Castiel’s pubic hair. The bedcovers dropped from Dean’s shoulders, leaving Castiel’s right leg entirely bare, save for his crumpled underwear, tight around his thighs as he spread them further apart. Dean’s mouth touched to Castiel’s erection, and Castiel couldn’t help but shout— “Dean!”

Dean cackled aloud, teeth flashing in a grin before they vanished, and his hot, warm mouth fit snugly around Castiel’s cock.

“Oh—” Castiel whimpered. “Oh, Dean...”

Dean bobbed his head, growling as he sucked. “H’mm,” he mouthed, vibrating the sound through Castiel’s sensitive bones. “Mm.” Dean lifted his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He slunk back up, one hand lowering to shove his own underwear down. Without warning he lay on Castiel, humping him. Dean grunted in delight, kissing Castiel’s mouth with both hands stroking his temples, one thumb running over and over his scar. Castiel made a dreadful noise, a part-moan, part-scream, part-sob. Dean laughed, shaking as he bowed his head to Castiel’s, forehead to forehead, forced breath huffing over each other’s faces.

“Dean,” Castiel whispered, patting Dean’s shoulder quickly. “Ahh—”

“Go for it,” Dean urged. “Just come.”

Castiel hugged Dean around his middle, face buried up against his warm shoulder, inhaling that forest-leather scent as climax overtook him. Heat spurted between their bellies; Castiel kept his eyes closed, feeling himself glow, feeling the ground pushed away by a hard burst of air. His wings spread through the blankets, hitting the canvas walls and curling up around them. Dean gasped, lifting his head to look.

“God, yes,” Dean grinned, fingers tugging a feather gently. “Shit, Cas, you’re beautiful. Terrifying,” he added, kissing Castiel’s cheek, “ _but fuckin’ amazing_.”

Castiel laughed, almost hiccuping as he relaxed, spent. Every muscle shuddered, then gave up completely: he flopped down, wings vanishing. He breathed deeply, smelling the sourness of ejaculate and sweat, and the more human, more saturated scent of Dean’s pre-come. Dean sat up on Castiel’s hips, holding his own erection and shifting his hand fast, licking his lips twice, eyes hungry on Castiel.

Castiel watched him, still feeling that swirl of arousal in his chest, in his groin. He set his hands on Dean’s hips and made him fall forwards, simply so Castiel could kiss him. They kissed leisurely, smiling the whole time, Castiel stroking Dean’s hair back.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Castiel said teasingly.

“Mhmh,” Dean murmured, jacking himself so fast his hand became a blur over his cockhead, flashes of slick pink flesh showing through every time his fingers rushed down. He began to buck, hips working over Castiel as their eyes met, and they kept staring, smiling, finding joy in unspoken intimacies. 

Slow, Castiel ran his hand up Dean’s back, under his crumpled shirt. He traced his spine back down, finishing with his hand cupped around Dean’s bare ass. He squeezed, loving that Dean laughed, giving him a kiss in return.

“Okay,” Dean nodded, panting more, licking his already-wet lips. “I’m gonna.” He kissed Castiel’s lips, then sat up again, adjusting himself until he was spread over Castiel’s thighs, the tip of his cock aimed at the exact spot Castiel had left his own release. With a sigh of relief, Dean let himself spill there, hot spurts covering Castiel’s skin a second time. Castiel watched that until he saw Dean glance at him, and from then they gazed only into each other’s eyes, holding on even after Dean was done.

Their focus went on, unwavering, as Dean sank down and rested atop Castiel, both pairs of hands gliding together, fingers spread. They breathed each other’s air, sour from the night, sweet from a day about to start. Without closing his eyes, Dean gave Castiel one more kiss, lips pushing front-on against each other. They broke away smiling, breathing out soft laughs.

Castiel made their joined hands wave, stretching out his fingers. “I liked that.”

“I like _you_ ,” Dean replied, without missing a beat.

Castiel chuckled. Lowly, he remarked, “As do I.”

“Good,” Dean said. He finally broke eye contact and lay down beside Castiel, still holding his hand, nestled right up against his shoulder. “That’ssss... good. ‘S awesome.”

“We’re both leaving today,” Castiel said, turning his head to gaze into Dean’s eyes, noses touching. “When will we see each other again?”

“You’re askin’ me?” Dean grinned. “You’re the psychic, Cas, you tell me.”

Castiel did try and find out, probing the world around him for answers, but all he heard was birdsong, and all he felt was the pleasant coolness of a crisp autumn morning. He shook his head. “My powers are messy in the morning. I need coffee before I can function.”

“Just like the rest of us,” Dean sighed, with a laughing tone. “Being an angel doesn’t really do you many favours, huh.”

“Some,” Castiel disagreed. “If I couldn’t see the brightness of your soul, I’d be far worse off. You are... stunning.” He stroked Dean’s freckled cheek with the back of his hand, watching his translucent skin pull until it sank back into place. “I hope you never see a wrinkle or a scar in the mirror and think your looks are fading, Dean. You will be radiant forever.”

Dean snorted. “And to think I thought you liked me for my _personality_.”

“I do!” Castiel huffed, pushing Dean’s chest. “I do,” he said again, more firmly, frowning at Dean. “You can’t believe I don’t, when I fell in love with you through stories.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. _I fell in love with you_. He understood Castiel’s choice of words. He said nothing to question them.

“Guess there’s no danger of you forgettin’ me,” Dean joked.

Castiel watched him with a tender gaze, the smallest smile curling his lips. “No,” he promised. “There’s no danger.”

Dean scratched at his own rumpled hair. “Uhhh. Maybe, just in case, though— Here.” He sat up suddenly, rummaging around for his discarded trousers. He found them, and dug in the pockets until he found what he was looking for. A talisman came out, draped upon his fingertips: its driftwood form dangled from a cord. Dean lay the talisman on his palm, then showed it to Cas. The wood had been inlaid with a semi-transparent stone, something pretty and blue.

“Picked it up in a tent last night,” Dean shrugged. “Weird as it sounds, I was... actually thinkin’ of you as I got it. Even though I didn’t _know_ -know you then.” He handed it to Castiel, warm hands stroking together as the object passed between them. “Universe works in mysterious ways, right? I think you’re meant to have it.” He huffed, head down. “Ugh. Sorry. Kinda sappy, huh.”

“Yes,” Castiel smiled. He kissed Dean’s cheek, then lifted the cord over his head. Now the stone rested against his heart. Castiel pinched the talisman between his fingers, looking at it carefully. The blue had flecks of sea green in it, and shifted in rainbows as it caught the morning light. “Yes, it’s incredibly sappy. I love it.”

Dean laughed, knees bent, hand rubbing the back of his neck. He turned his sparkling eyes on Castiel again – and he smiled, beaming like a fire had been lit in his heart and it wouldn’t ever go out. That was how Castiel felt now, and he saw the same warmth in Dean’s eyes.

“Give me something to remember you by,” Dean asked, hand brushing Castiel’s knee, one thumb grazing his kneecap. “C’mon. Something I can keep in my pocket. Look at every so often.”

“Something sappy?” Castiel asked.

Dean nodded. “The kind of thing Sam would rib me for.”

“Um. I don’t have much with me...” Castiel reached for his tailcoat, dragging it over carefully so nothing would fall out of the pockets. He felt inside, finding his wireless radio, the microphone and the attached transmitter – which he’d forgotten to put in the light to charge...

He chuckled as he pulled out a crooked plastic figure, with four legs, a grey mane and lilac eyes. “It has wings,” Castiel said, offering Dean the pegasus toy.

Dean grinned widely, holding the toy in both hands so it faced him, wings outstretched so they touched the knuckle of each forefinger. “Cute.”

Castiel leaned in and gave Dean a kiss. Dean returned the pressure, turning his head and leaning closer. They exhaled against each other, relaxing into a comforting embrace, thighs pressed, hands touching unconsciously to each other’s hearts. Castiel only realised where his fingers had gone when he felt Dean’s pulse under them. He pulled back, lowering his chin as he smiled. He felt Dean’s love thrumming in his heart, swirling and sparkling in Castiel’s hand, reaching all the way up his arm.

“You felt that?” Dean whispered. “You do, don’t you?”

“Very much,” Castiel confirmed, meeting Dean’s eyes again. “You won’t forget me, Dean.”

Dean took Castiel’s hand and kissed his knuckles, warming Castiel’s fingers in one hand while he held his gift in the other. He said nothing, but his eyes shone with promises, and Castiel knew why he never said them aloud: they were too easy to break. One wrong step in this world, and never again would a hunter return to their love. It hurt less to merely wish.

“You really won’t come with us,” Dean said, half asking, half hoping.

Castiel thought about it. He wanted to. He wanted to watch the Kraken banished from the southern border and chased out to sea. But more than that, he wanted to see what it was like, travelling by train, making love every other night in a cosy canvas tent, swapping stories with Sam by lantern light until they couldn’t stay awake any longer. He wanted to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with Dean on a long car journey, sun flashing through the trees and curving over the dashboard; they drove listening to Radiohead on the tape deck, Castiel playing tic-tac-toe with Sam on last week’s newspaper while the three of them discussed their next case.

He saw it with his hidden eyes, and he knew it was in their future. But it seemed distant. Not quite tangible. A lot of other things had to occur between now and then for those events to become a reality.

“One day,” Castiel nodded. “Yes. But not today.”

“Someday.” Dean gave a stiff smile, but it became fluid anyway when he saw Castiel’s grin.

“Ahh,” Castiel sighed, flopping onto his back, stretching out his arms. His fingers brushed the cold canvas, wet from condensation. He grunted, sitting up again. “We’d better get dressed. Sam must be waiting for us.”

“Yeah,” Dean uttered, searching around for his pants. “I can’t imagine why he got up so early – you guys talked ‘til, like, three in the morning. What the hell was there to talk about?”

“Angels. Enochian. The way people turn negative thoughts into self-fulfilling prophecies. You.” Castiel shrugged. “Conversation never ran dry.”

Dean screwed up his face. “What’cha talkin’ about me for?”

Castiel kept his smile secretive. “Can’t an angel and his new friend keep some things private?”

Dean rolled his eyes, but allowed the remark to slide. “Glad you ‘n him get along, at least. I’m goin’ out,” he added, kneeling up as he yanked his trousers up to his waist. “Gotta pee. If Sam comes back tell him there’s still hot dogs to be heated up, alright? Get some coffee going.”

“I need to pee too,” Castiel complained, struggling to pull his pants on. He grappled with his tailcoat, then his belt, fumbling with everything as he staggered to his feet outside, toes jammed into his boots. Dean stood off to the side, stretching his arms and yawning. As Castiel did up his belt buckle, he glanced Dean’s way and saw him traipsing off into the trees.

Castiel made his way in the other direction.

When they both returned, Dean offered a slosh of water from the metal pan to clean Castiel’s hands, then poured some over his own. Straight away, he began stoking the fire again to heat the water.

“If only you had a portable microwave oven,” Castiel said, sitting down at the entrance to the tent. “They’re much faster.”

“Eager to leave, huh?” Dean raised his eyebrows.

“No,” Castiel scowled. “I’m _hungry_. And I need coffee.”

Dean grinned, pouring more water into the pan from Sam’s flask. “For someone who _chooses_ to eat food, you sure do act like you _need_ it, Cas.”

Castiel quickly lowered his gaze, feeling himself grow warm under Dean’s scrutiny.

“Hey...” Dean started, knocking Castiel’s boot with his own. “Look, I can’t say I know a whole lot about angels, but... do you get addicted to stuff? Like, you eat food, and then...?”

Castiel swallowed. “Not as such.”

Dean moved to sit beside Castiel, digging around for the hot dogs he’d bought. “So—?” he asked casually. “What gives? How come I can hear your stomach growling from here?”

Castiel sighed, jaw stiff. “I was gifted this human body the moment I was thrown from Heaven. It’s...” he looked at his open palm, “flawed.”

“How so?”

“I never needed to eat, not for weeks after the angels landed,” Castiel confessed. “The homeless shelter I stayed in— I became sort of a local miracle there,” he said with a sideways smile. “The man who didn’t need to eat. But, of course, nobody was to know I wasn’t a man at all. Yet, as time wore on, and I used more of my power...” He gulped.

“It drained away,” Dean realised. “So you’re both an angel and a human?”

Castiel gave an uncomfortable smile, eyes on the flickering fire. “Closer to human. Given the rate at which my needs increase – particularly after using power to heal—”

“Eeech, sorry, man.”

Shaking his head forgivingly, Castiel finished, “You could very well be the last being I ever heal. There may already be mortal angels on Earth. I wouldn’t know, I haven’t had any courteous contact with them.” He exhaled, running his chilly hands behind his neck. “All the more reason to end the war. Once angels become human, they’ll likely die upon any blade, not just those forged in Heaven. I collect angel blades... not because I find them awe-inspiring, or beautiful, but simply to take them out of circulation. They’re used by both sides to kill the other. For a long time removing them has been my way of curbing the violence.”

Dean pushed the hot dogs into the fire to re-cook them, saying nothing.

Castiel noticed a figure between the abandoned cars at the edge of the forest. As he watched, the dusty silhouette approached in a faded pink light. A simple glow lurked above, as the sun had not yet lifted over the valley peaks.

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel said, as Sam came forward.

“Mornin’ Sammy,” Dean grunted. “Where’d you disappear to?”

“Finding the train station,” Sam said. “It’s not too far from where we arrived, five minutes’ walk. Obviously we missed the six o’clock ride out of here, all the other hunters got on that. We’ve got half an hour until the eight o’clock.”

“Dude, why didn’t you wake us up for six?”

“You and Cas were all bundled up and _cuddling_ ,” Sam retorted. “If I woke you up and told you to get dressed already, you would’ve spat in my coffee for the rest of the month.”

“I would not,” Dean said, while Castiel smiled. “You’re makin’ shit up. Here, hold this,” he said to Castiel, handing him a cup of ground coffee beans, then pouring steaming water into it. “There’s your vitality booster; plus five energy points.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said, watching a cluster of bubbles swirl around and around on the surface.

Dean handed Sam a hot dog with one side thoroughly crisped. Two sauce packets followed, tossed up into Sam’s waiting hand. Sam ripped them open with his teeth, slathering his breakfast bun with ketchup and mustard.

“You want one?” Dean asked, preparing a second hot dog. Castiel nodded eagerly, mouth watering at the smell of it. Dean cackled, apparently amused by Castiel’s desperation.

“So what’s your plan f’r today, Cas?” Sam asked, one cheek bulging.

Dean answered, as Castiel had already crammed half his breakfast in his mouth: “He’s headed to south Texas, same as everyone. ‘Cept he’s going in the Mystery Van with Pamela.” Dean nudged Castiel’s side. “Gotta say, man, as thrilling as the railroad sounds to you, I’d give near-anything for a long, unbroken stretch of tarmac, a beautiful car and a full tank of gas. Maybe seems old fashioned – but the heart wants what the heart wants, right? Can’t deny it.”

Castiel swiped ketchup from his upper lip with his tongue. “Hmh,” he said to his hot dog.

Dean’s grin only grew, Castiel could see in the corner of his eye. When Castiel glanced at him properly, he saw Dean looking starry-eyed with affection.

“Whu’h?” Castiel asked.

“Nothin’,” Dean shrugged, eyelids lowering. “Just... There’s somethin’ real special about anyone who digs crappy fast food the way I do.”

Sam chuckled, eyebrows leaping in a way that indicated Dean’s words were gospel truth.

Castiel finished his hot dog as Dean began his own, and while Dean turned his hot dog sideways to squish the bun and sausage between his teeth, Castiel sipped at his coffee, sighing in bliss as the fumes of caffeine lit fires in his brain.

He laughed quietly, still smirking to himself when Dean and Sam looked his way, questioningly.

“I can’t believe I spent all night with you,” Castiel remarked, eyes cast low. “ _You_ two. Prophet of God, and the boy who cast Lucifer into the Pit.”

“You know what I can’t believe?” Dean mumbled, still chewing his hot dog. “Forget the angel thing. I mean, a freaking _journalist_ rocks on up into our lives, and _doesn’t_ spend every waking minute trying to pry ‘the real story’ out of us.” He gave Castiel a soft bump on the arm with a fist. “Don’t think that little courtesy went unnoticed, man. Appreciate you talkin’ to us like normal people.”

Castiel gave Dean a sly, amused look. “You’ll give me my scoop someday.”

Dean rolled his eyes, though the gesture was well-natured. “Sure, pal. Why not. Not like we turned down a hundred other reporters, waving money at us. Might as well be you.”

Curious, Castiel pressed, “Why _don’t_ you talk about it publicly? The defining moments of your life.”

Dean scoffed. “You forget what I said last night, already? About defining moments?”

Thinking back a bit, Castiel sipped some coffee before repeating, “The worst moments of your life don’t define you.”

Dean pursed his lips and clicked his fingers, pointing towards Castiel, though his eyes turned away. “People see us as heroes, man. But God knows, we’re just regular hunters. Neither of us got much say in what we were thrown into. Me,” Dean shrugged roughly, then licked his lips shiny. “Heh. Could be real easy to let guilt consume me, y’know? I could’ve ended everyone’s suffering, forever. But it was either that, or keep fighting. And I chose the option that kept us alive. Whatever way I look at it, I made the right choice in the moment, and now we’re all dealing with the consequences. That doesn’t make me a hero, it makes me a hunter. That’s all I ever was. I got the scars to prove it.”

Castiel inhaled coffee steam, a comfortable smile resting on his lips. “I think,” he said, cup-warmed hand touching to his scarred temple, “I may leave my mask off for a few days. And interview people face-to-face. See what difference it makes.”

“Yeah?” A tiny frown of bemusement wrinkled between Dean’s brows. “Why’s that?”

Castiel rolled a shoulder, eyes drifting to Sam, who looked interested, then back to the fire. “They’re _my_ scars. I can redefine what they mean. They need not remind me of my betrayal, and the disdain of the family I lost. They can tell a story of survival, and the love for humanity I’ve gained.”

He soon felt the warmth of Dean’s knuckles, pressing against his own. Dean’s thumb rubbed reassuringly against Castiel’s knee, then he withdrew his hand.

“How long we got, Sammy?” Dean asked, eyes turning to his brother.

Sam checked the time on his watch. “Uh. Twenty-five minutes.”

Castiel tipped back the last grainy portion of his coffee, handing his cup back to Dean. “I need to talk to Pamela, help her pack up the van,” he said solemnly. He sat still for a moment longer, putting off the moment he had to leave.

“Ah, shoot,” Dean uttered, palming his face. “I promised I’d give Charlie a hand with her car. Totally slipped my mind. What a stellar friend I make, huh.” He shook his head. “Before you go, Cas...” Dean patted his pockets, then squirmed backward into the tent to get something, as Castiel got to his feet. “Hang on.” He upturned everything, hastening to find something in particular. “Ha!” He emerged triumphant, standing up beside Castiel and handing over his velvet pouch, jingling with nickels and dimes. “You mind giving that to Charlie when you’re over there? She won’t have left yet. She waits as long as she can before leaving public events, so she scores all the leftover food for free. Just a lil’ life hack I taught her,” he grinned. “Tell her we’ll see her in Texas. I owe her a couple favours, and Sam owes her a raspberry Sno-Cone.”

“You’re giving her _all_ your earnings?” Castiel raised his eyebrows.

Dean shrugged a shoulder. “She needs a replacement solar panel on her car, the one she’s got is almost busted. Me ‘n Sam got some other cash stashed away in a sock somewhere, we’re fine. Besides,” Dean grinned as he shrugged again, “I got somethin’ better than a pocketful of loose change.” He bumped Castiel’s hand with his own.

Castiel nodded, smiling. He slipped the pouch into his pocket, then bent to lift his plushie unicorn from the lip of the tent. He waggled the toy near Dean’s face, and said, in a elegant purr, “I’ll see you very soon, Dean.”

Dean batted away the toy with a grin. “Uh-huh. We still got time, Cas, you don’t gotta leave right now.”

Castiel lingered at first, but then he spoke firmly: “No, I should go. I’m sorry.”

Softly, Dean gazed into Castiel’s eyes, letting go of a sigh. “You sure we can’t travel together? I mean, we might not be able to find each other again. You can’t let us know where you are without compromising your position to the public, y’know? So... last chance. Come with us.” Dean lowered his eyes to the ground, then looked back up. “Please.”

Castiel swallowed.

For a moment, Dean was so _sure_ he’d say yes.

But Castiel averted his gaze and shook his head. “Pamela...”

Dean understood. “Guess we’ll meet you at the Texas shoreline, then. Wherever you end up... we’ll find you.”

Castiel’s smile wasn’t too convincing. Soon it faded, and he simply stood before Dean, holding his eyes. “My heart goes with you, Dean.”

Dean’s lips parted, and he had to look down, feeling an ache begin in his chest and stomach. “Yeah,” he said quietly. He managed a tiny smile as he met Castiel’s eyes again. “Guess mine’s going with you, too, huh?” His sideways grin felt more than a little weak. “Have a— Have a safe trip, Cas. All right?”

He gave Castiel a simple kiss on his lips, lingering for a single second before he stepped back. “I’m, uh. I’mma get started on this tent.” He turned, then yanked on his sleeping bag, straightening it out so he could roll it. He couldn’t bear to look back and see Castiel leave.

“See you, Sam,” Castiel said, his voice more distant. “It was good meeting you. Hopefully we’ll meet again.”

Soon, the sound of his slow footsteps faded – but even then, Dean could not turn around.

· · · ★ · · ·

Dean glanced around their campsite, seeing the flattened pine needles where the tent had been. Beside it was the water-sodden ashy blast where the firepit had been dismantled, protective circle of stones kicked away so it didn’t look too much like someone had camped here without a permit.

“You got everything?” Dean asked.

“Yeah,” Sam said, hands in the pockets of his suede jacket.

Dean shouldered his pack, snapping one of his suspenders tight on the other shoulder. “What’s the time?”

“Seven-forty-something. Fifteen minutes ‘til the train.”

Dean fretted, his attention darting out of the forest, looking towards the carnival. The motionless ferris wheel made a dainty silhouette against a fair pink sky, brushed with apricot clouds. “Well, if we’re going, let’s go. Come on.” He strode off, and Sam jogged to catch up.

“Seems kinda silly to me,” Sam said casually. “Travelling separately when we’re going to the same place.”

“Tell me about it,” Dean uttered. “But Cas has to share the driving, and it’s not like they’ve got room for us in their van next to all the microphones and transmitters and crap.” With a great sigh escaping him, Dean forged ahead.

Nearer the edge of the forest, Dean let his hand stroke along the flaking shell of his favourite abandoned car, a black Chevy. “I’ll come back for you, Baby,” he promised quietly. “Someday soon. Fresh coat of paint, new seats, a solar panel sitting flat to your roof, you’ll be golden. You, me, Sammy, and Cas, we’ll all have a good life. Just you wait.” With hopeful sparkle in his soul, he turned away.

Sam followed a moment later.

“Maybe—” Dean hesitated, slowing his pace, “Maybe Cas will change his mind. Like, what if he comes looking for us? We don’t have to catch this train, you know, we could go tomorrow. I could help Charlie with her car.”

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Sam chuckled, storming ahead, forcing Dean to chase after him. “Pamela made it crystal clear last night: we have to keep up appearances. Look busy, because the world’s watching. Everyone’s expecting us in Texas as soon as possible, Dean.

“And anyway,” Sam huffed, “We came to the carnival when I was a kid but I don’t remember seeing an elephant. I _always_ miss the coolest things. I really, _really_ want to see the Kraken – more than anything. If we go a day late, we might miss it. Cas will be _there_ , Dean, we don’t need to wait for him now.”

Dean scowled. “You know how unlikely it is we’ll find him again, right? Chances are we just said goodbye for good.”

“I tracked him to the carnival, didn’t I? I can track him anywhere.”

“Right,” Dean said tonelessly. “Yeah. Smart kid-brother Sam. How could I forget.” He gritted his teeth, then released the tension.

They moved a little faster, leaving the forest, stalking straight through a pale meadow. Stalks clutched their knees as they waded through seeding hay, finding the white-sand path and the wildflowers. Rare honeybees buzzed between delicate, half-open blooms, collecting pollen. The sun peered above the hilltops now; gold shimmered in the west, all the way to the horizon, and the air had warmed enough that the cicadas chirped to themselves, creating an overall susurration through the fields.

Onward they went, approaching the bank bordering the railroad.

Sam caught sight of Dean’s distraught expression, and seemed to soften. Understandingly, he remarked, “Cas is – special, isn’t he? He’s— He’s an angel. And the first guy you’ve ever...” Sam shot Dean a concerned look as they walked side-by-side.

“I’ve left people I love behind before,” Dean said with force. “I mean— People I’ve slept with. Girls. It’s no big deal.”

Sam’s stare grew even more uncertain.

They climbed the same grassy verge they’d toppled down the previous day, thighs burning as they marched up the slope.

“Dean—” Sam grabbed Dean at the peak of the hill. Dean swung around to stare at his brother. Sam had a pink tint on his cheeks, his overlong hair fluffed and twisted over his shoulders by the breeze. His stare was deeply concerned.

“Listen,” he said, “maybe we shouldn’t go at all.”

“Dude, you just said you wanted—?”

“Hear me out,” Sam interrupted. “Last night, me and Cas talked, and he was worried. Like, really worried. So many people heard you and Cas discussing the Kraken on the radio. Accident or not, you broadcasted our travel destination. Allies and enemies alike are gonna start looking for the three of _us_ on the coastline. A prophet, a journalist who’s secretly an angel, and the Devil’s vessel all team up to visit a sea monster – but it’s not some joke with a funny punchline. We’re all wanted outlaws, to some extent. Going where people expect us puts _all_ of us in unnecessary danger.”

With considerable strain in his voice, Sam finally managed to say, “As much as it _sucks_... I’m willing to miss seeing the Kraken, if staying away keeps us safe.”

Dean let himself weaken for a moment. He considered the options, but before he could come to any decision, the train’s whistle blew in the distance: one shrill _whoooeeeet!_ echoed sweetly through the valley.

Dean turned his head, immediately stunned by the sight before him, how the rising sun cast a sparkling pink haze from the left, streaming in well-cut streaks past the forested hills. And Dean realised, in seeing the view and knowing the sun rose in the east, that the locomotive approached from the south.

“It’s heading _away_ from Texas,” he said in amazement. “ _And_ it’s fifteen minutes early.”

Sam shook his head. “The timetable never said—?”

Dean took a moment to process his lack of surprise. Somehow, deep within a light-frosted memory, he’d _expected_ an early train. He gave a grim smile.

“Cas told me some things too,” Dean reminded Sam. “And one of those things was that we gotta trust our instincts. If you’re saying we ought stay outta Texas, fine. Let’s go where no-one expects us. Leave the sea monster to the experts.”

Now Dean turned for the train tracks, leaving Sam behind and scooting down into the ditch, where the indirect morning haze was shaded brown. “Come on if you’re coming,” he called, spotting the train station a few hundred feet down the tracks. “That train ain’t waiting for slowpokes.”

· · · ★ · · ·

Castiel found Pamela several vehicles along from their van; she lounged with her hip against the hood of a yellow car, in conversation with Charlie Bradbury.

As Castiel approached, he spied the weary look on Charlie’s face, and he donned a consoling expression the moment they locked eyes.

“Something the matter?” Castiel asked.

“Well, a good morning to you, too,” Pamela said, one judgemental eyebrow raised, though she smiled in amusement. “Had a good night, didn’t you? Your aura’s all... twinkly.”

Castiel averted his eyes, quickly looking to Charlie. “Dean told me to give you this,” he said, handing her the pouch of coins.

“Pff,” Charlie took the pouch, tucking it into the pocket of her pants without looking inside. “Thanks. Could be a hundred bucks in here, still wouldn’t make a difference.” She jabbed a thumb at the solar panel on the roof rack of her car. “This old thing jumped ship in the night; unless you can find me a panel going cheap and a car expert with a free morning, right this second, this car’s going nowhere. So much for Kraken-hunting, huh?”

“Hey,” Pamela said to Castiel, clicking her fingers, then patting her hand against the car’s exterior shell. “How about we get this old wreck tied to the van’s back bumper – we can tow Charlie to Texas.”

“What!” Charlie stood straight, eyes wide in alarm. “That’s five hundred miles! The roads are crap! You’re on a schedule, you announced on the radio you’d be at the coast by evening! I’ll slow you down, you can’t—”

“Relax, sugarplum,” Pamela said easily. “Only downside is that there’s no seats going spare. But hell, I don’t mind a little squeeze with a lovely lady, do you?”

A delighted grin lifted the corner of Charlie’s lips. “Nuh-uh.”

“Um,” Castiel said.

Ignoring him, Pamela gave Charlie a wink. “Cas can hang out in the back, you ‘n me drive. We’ll have a girly road trip, how about that? Talk about books and monster politics.”

“Hey, no offence to you, but I’m happy to hang out in the back with the tech,” Charlie said. “Buttons and wiring? Hell yes.”

A chill struck Castiel from the top of his scalp, rippling downwards. “If you two are driving—” He heard the tremble in his voice, and so did the others; they turned to him, curious to find out what had him so shaken. Quickly, he said, “I can go with Sam and Dean.”

Charlie narrowed her eyes. “Didn’t they leave already?”

“Not for about fifteen minutes,” Castiel amended, patting his pockets, pulling out his plush unicorn. “Here; this is for you,” he said, handing the toy to Pamela.

Pamela’s blank pupils settled an inch below Castiel’s gaze. She stroked the soft lump and smiled.

“In case I have trouble finding you in Texas, in case things don’t go according to plan—” Castiel reached for Pamela, gripping her elbow. “Thank you for everything you’ve given me, my friend. Especially for keeping my secret safe all these years. It never occurred to me that you already knew.”

Her smile widened, showing her teeth. “No problem, angel.”

Charlie looked between them, missing the distinct meaning of those words. Pamela used too many affectionate nicknames for anyone to guess that one was a noun.

Castiel’s moment of sentimentality was short-lived; an echo flooded the valley: the whistle of a solar locomotive, modelled after its historic predecessors. Castiel felt a lightning bolt of urgency strike him. “I need to go. They’re going to get on that train.” He glanced from the half-empty fairground to Pamela and Charlie, backing away. “Have a safe journey— Goodbye, I’m sorry!”

He turned and ran, hearing a shout of farewell follow him. He ran as fast as he could, streaking through the carnival as light finally dawned in the valley. Fabulous gold painted the tops of the white canvas tents, gleaming as Castiel shot past, his boots pounding the dirt and kicking up ruined grass behind him. He passed sellers and stragglers, who wandered between half-collapsed tents and dismantled framework, sipping coffee.

His coat flew out in his wake, his breath coming in harsh pants. He couldn’t miss this. He couldn’t let Dean leave without him—

He wouldn’t be able to get there in time. He didn’t know how to make his wings pop out on command; he needed transport. Head turning, he looked from tents, to trucks, to a tree – and just behind the tree...

With a gasp, Castiel leapt between tents, laying his hands on Kathy’s bicycle. He grabbed it, looking around – Kathy was _there_ , leaning against the tree, eating a Sno-Cone.

“Kathy, I need to borrow this,” Castiel told her. “My apologies, it’s very important. You’ll find it by the train tracks—”

“Um – o-okay?”

“Thank you – I have to go!” Castiel climbed on the bicycle and rode out into the field again.

He heard a shout of, “Don’t break it!” and all he could do was nod, promising her he wouldn’t.

Feet pedaling, hips swaying, the bicycle wavered side-to-side as he pushed past the end of the field, shooting up the rise where he and Dean had wandered last night, holding hands, nudging gently at each other as they laughed. Grass blasted aside as Castiel saved the farmers some work, cutting the hay from the ground. Seeds flung out by the hundred, leaving a trail of sparkling gold that flashed in the morning light, swooping up in eddies.

Though they were nowhere to be seen, Castiel felt his wings swooping. Swooping, burnishing the air with hard, massive strokes. The bicycle leapt from the ground, spoked wheels still spinning once they touched back down. Again! Again, riding the air as Castiel half-flew, half-pedalled.

Closer now, the driver of the solar train pulled its whistle, announcing its presence, warning people to clear the tracks. The train had already passed the station, its heavy weight making the ground shake. Quaking rumbled the Earth, growing more and more noticeable as Castiel and his stolen bicycle approached.

The angle of the morning sun brought something to Castiel’s attention: the train was heading north. North, away from where Castiel was meant to go. Away from the Kraken, his job, his coworker, and his designated purpose.

Castiel did not stop. Wherever he went next, he wanted to be with Dean. He had a new designated purpose, now.

At the high bank before the train tracks, Castiel dared not leap from the bicycle – instead he set his head down, hands gripped hard on the handlebars, body in line with the frame. Wings bludgeoned the air, punching him from the ground and sending him soaring over the bank. He turned the bicycle in the air, wings flaring to angle him parallel to the rails, and his figure poised for a silent moment, dark against the pastel pink sky.

He smashed down into the gravel that bordered the tracks, and he kept on pedaling. The bike wheels hopped up onto a rail, running straight along the track edge. Far ahead, he saw the scarlet-red caboose of the freight train.

He could catch it. He wasn’t too far behind, he could make it.

· · · ★ · · ·

Dean sighed, dumping his bag on a leather seat. He looked beyond the darkened window frame of the train, watching the grassy banks on the trackside flash chartreuse, gold, brown in the rising sun. The shadow of the train shimmered with light from the inside, as the sun beamed through the passenger car and showed Dean and Sam’s silhouettes.

“At least there’s somewhere to sit,” Sam said, clearly hoping to cheer Dean up. “Otherwise we’d be hanging out with the engine guy all day again.”

“Yeah,” Dean said sadly. The relief of jumping aboard and being suddenly _stationary_ had already faded; right now he wished he was still running. He wished he’d missed the jump and had fallen into the tracks, left behind as the train left without him and Sam. “Maybe we made a mistake. We’re gonna miss the biggest hunt of our lifetimes.”

Sam looked up from where he sat. “Remember what Cas used to say?”

“When?”

“When people asked why he was so rarely open about his location, why he avoided doing interviews face-to-face.”

“Safety over sensation.” Dean licked his lips. “Sure. Fine. But... the _Kraken_...”

“It’s just one monster,” Sam said. “There’ll be others.”

Dean snorted. “Wasn’t that the whole problem? More Krakens?” He chuckled, thumbing at his eyes, one hand on his hip. “God, I dunno what’s wrong with me. First I’m like, yeah, get on this train. Now I’m like...”

He hesitated. _Instinct_...

He stepped to the window and unlatched it in a hurry. He shoved the pane up so the frame thumped the top rim. A furious blast of rushing air flooded the passenger cabin, fresh like grass, stale like rotting autumn leaves. A lace curtain bloomed inward, flaring over and over again; Dean’s hair whipped in a hundred different directions as he leaned his head out of the window, first looking left with his eyes narrowed against the forward rush, checking there was nothing ahead to hit him. Just a straight country track, heading for the horizon. Then he looked right, towards the rear of the train. The train and all its industrial carts of quarry rock and shale rounded a bend in the track. As Dean was in the third-to-last car, he saw past the tail.

His hands went weak, his mouth went dry. “Cas,” he breathed.

There he was, bare-faced, chasing the train on a bicycle. Every few moments, a burst of light emerged from his shoulders, like electrocuted veins – but the veins were feathers.

Dean fell back inside the train. He said nothing to Sam, but ran from the cabin and made his way to the end of the car, where the door opened up onto a transport car. Dean didn’t hesitate before letting the door slam open, a convex of air lifting his jacket from his hips. He reached out and leapt onto the metal connecting the carts, and then to the black iron ladder that led up over the cart.

Though his heartbeat matched the speeding _clicketty-clack, clicketty-clack_ of the train’s mechanics skipping the grooves between tracks, he was not fearful, only energised. He’d done this a thousand times. He climbed into the cart of rubble, staggering towards the rear in zig-zags, rocking his weight with the surging of the vehicle.

He made it to the end, wind blasting his body – then down the next ladder.

The final car housed an empty kitchen. Dean opened its door and ran through to the end, thumping the other door’s locking bar to let himself out. He fell into the final protective barrier, his belly pushed against the rusty bar by the forward force of the train.

The angel was only ten feet away.

With all it had to transport, the locomotive wasn’t fast, but it was far from sluggish. Castiel was moving faster than any normal person could ride a bike, but he wasn’t gaining speed, he was falling back.

“Cas!” Dean bellowed over the screech of the metal wheels grinding the tracks, the boom of the ground below, the Earth howling in the train’s wake. “Cas, come on!” Dean held out an arm, beckoning Cas closer. “Come ON!”

Castiel’s wings pushed him harder, lifting the bicycle from the track it balanced on. He floated for a moment, flap, flap, then down. The wings kept him going, speeding him along. Lengthened primary feathers skimmed the grass on Cas’ right; the plants were disturbed with every sweep.

“You can make it!” Dean shouted, as Sam joined him. “Go faster!”

A distant voice, aching with fatigue— “I can’t—”

“You can!” Dean roared back, one hand holding the support pole for the caboose’s overhanging roof, one hand outstretched off the side. Cas fell back a little, and Dean shook his head. “DON’T YOU GIVE UP.”

Castiel set his head down and _surged_. Closer. _Closer._ The bicycle never tapped down this time, Cas carried it as he flew—

“Let it go!” Dean shouted, grabbing for Cas’ sleeve but missing. “Cas, let the bike go! It’s weighing you down!”

“But I promised...” Castiel fell back again, wheels to the rail. He flapped again, and kept flapping. His tailcoat flared at his waist, floating like a cape behind him. Fatigue and pain was obvious on his face, tears seemed to streak down one cheek. Yet his expression of determination never faltered.

Dean couldn’t reach. Cas was falling back again. The train curved and Castiel fell back even more, struggling to keep the bike balanced on the smooth rail.

“Get closer, I’ll grab you!” Dean shouted, making Sam hold the back of his waist so he had some anchorage. “Come _on_ , Cas! Trust me! You can make it!”

With one last burst of energy, Castiel leapt from the bike. For a moment in Dean’s mind, time froze. This guy was crazy, he wasn’t _nearly_ close enough, he’d just thrown himself into the tracks at a high speed, what the hell was he thinking—?!

But those wings, they flap-flap-flap-flap-flapped—

And Cas flew.

He shot into Dean’s arms, slamming him and Sam against the caboose’s metal wall. They fell forward again, Dean gazing at Cas in awe. Fresh tears slid down on the angel’s cheeks, a helpless smile brightening his eyes, pulling at his lips. “I’m coming with you,” Castiel whispered. “Wherever you’re going, I’m coming too.” He kissed Dean, hard, holding his head in his hands.

Dean wrapped his waist with both arms, hugging his friend, his lover. His guardian angel.

They separated slowly, searching for each other’s gaze. The train hit a crook in the track, they were thrown sideways. Dean grabbed the protective barrier, swiping for Cas, missing—

Castiel lurched in place – his wing must’ve caught on something. And then he was gone, his tired body swept from the train.

“Cas—”

He hit the ground, rolling.

“CAS!” Dean grasped at nothing, anguish strangling him breathless. Sam grabbed Dean’s arm and pulled him back, saving him from falling too.

“He’s fine,” Sam said, as both he and Dean saw Castiel sit up at the side of the tracks. “Thank God, he’s fine.”

“Cas,” Dean whispered, frowning so deeply it hurt. “He wanted to— No, no, no, _no_.”

As Castiel’s diminishing figure shrank into the distance, Dean’s eyes filled with tears. He snarled and turned to go back inside, storming through the abandoned galley kitchen with Sam closing the door behind them.

“We can get off,” Sam said kindly. “We can go back for him.”

“This was _exactly_ how it happened,” Dean fumed, stalking to the end of the caboose, then back, arms lifting in frustration. “This was exactly what I saw, when he showed off his wings last night, and his eyes started glowing – the passenger car’s curtain waving in the wind, the bike wheels spinning riderless in the fucking ditch.

“He told me I’d leave him. He _told_ me! I could’ve changed the future, but no. I left him anyway! _Instinct_ told me to stay another few _minutes_ —”

With a sneer, Dean turned his back on Sam and covered his face with both hands. “He has the whole goddamn universe in his head, Sammy. Fifteen eyes seeing some other reality. All the time. He’s lived millennia with that information, he probably filters out the junk. Me?” Dean grinned with despair searing in his veins, and he looked desperately at Sam. “I get a handful of predictions and I lose my _mind_. How does he know whether to act on this stuff? Whether to just carry on, and expect the future to happen regardless of what he does?”

Sam looked at Dean and gave a shrug.

“No,” Dean said eventually, shoulders sagging in defeat. “I’m _done_ trying to mess with fate. If Cas says our paths cross again someday, they will. Until then—” He smiled, softness overtaking his heart. “I’ll wait for him.”

· · · ★ · · ·


	7. Crack'n for Kraken

A pair of fluffy purple dice swung from the crooked rear-view mirror. Swinging, swinging.

Cloudless blue sky stretched infinitely beyond, tinted darker by the fade inside the windshield glass. Castiel glanced at his boots up on the dashboard, feeling the burn of the sun through the black leather. He looked back to the purple dice.

Swinging, swinging. Swaying as the van’s chassis squeaked and grunted, bumping along a road laden with destruction.

Tarmac had long ago been dented, coughed up by earthquakes, broken by burst pipes. Greenery sprouted through the road, growing tiredly on either side of well-cut parallel tire tracks. Nobody bothered to fix it. This was what roads were like, nowadays. Each stretch was privately owned, and the owners were either dead, broke, overworked, absent, or careless. Castiel remembered when they could drive at seventy miles an hour. Now forty was pushing it.

They passed a sign that read _Temple – 10_.

Beside Castiel, Pamela held the wheel, which was wrapped with twine, threaded with colourful crystal beads that sparkled in the sunlight. The tufted brown twine had worn down to smooth black where she most often put her hands. Her right thumb tap-tap-tapped impatiently, thoughtfully. Castiel didn’t bother to wonder what she was thinking about.

Under his own thumb, he rubbed at the stone inlaid in the talisman Dean had gifted him. Though he and Dean were separated now, a small smile lingered on Castiel’s lips. He felt Dean’s presence in the stone. His personal scent still clung to Castiel’s clothes. They’d put over a hundred miles between them now, but perhaps they weren’t so distant. Perhaps they’d never be especially distant, going forward.

From the cramped rear quarters of the van, the plushie unicorn leaned in. Charlie’s hand waggled it, and made it bump Castiel’s shoulder. In an obnoxiously posh voice, the unicorn announced, “Yoooou’re meant to be _writing_.”

Castiel smiled at the unicorn. He glanced down at the embroidery-bound journal open on his lap, half of one page ruined with scratchy, lopsided lettering; his pen nib had been thoroughly assaulted by the movement of the car. “If you could read a single word of this, maybe I’d agree.”

“Hey, I can read it,” Charlie said in her own voice, scooting closer to peer over the unicorn’s shoulder. “Drupal unicode sourbudding... situation... Uh. Okay.”

“It says ‘ _Dean Winchester’s side of the story_ ’,” Castiel corrected. “The first few chapters of this book will be about what led to the war. Dean’s choice included. Of course—” he glanced at Pamela, “the initial chapter ought to be about God. His absence from Heaven for the millennia leading up to the moment of Dean’s choice. I need to fill in the blanks before proceeding any further.”

“How do you know God was AWOL?” Charlie asked, grinning. “Who’s your source on that one?”

Castiel gave her a lopsided smile, tapping the smooth lid of his pen to his lips, a self-hushing gesture. Even so, he lowered the pen and uttered, “I suppose it’s a questionable practice to use your own experience as a source...”

“Not if you talk about yourself in the third person and cite your work correctly,” Charlie said, before pausing. “Wait, you mean—”

“How about these potholes, huh?” Pamela said loudly, with one significant warning glance in Castiel’s direction. “Talk about filling in _these_ blanks!”

Charlie shot her a cheeky grin. “You could fill in _my_ blank, any time, sister.”

“Ooh. Well, hoow-dyy.”

Castiel squinted. Then he realised what they were really talking about, and he hurriedly bowed his head, pretending to write.

Nine miles to Temple, just outside of Austin, Texas.

Castiel began to write for real. Even if nobody else could read it, _he_ knew what it said. And that was all that mattered.

· · · ★ · · ·

“ _Goood afternoon, listeners, Cas Novak here, and you’re tuned in to Hunter Radio: sixty-six point six A.M. If you’ve been out of range since yesterday, let me update you. Long story short, there’s a massive sea monster in the Gulf of Mexico, preparing to lay some eggs. If they hatch, we lose more coastline. We—_

“ _Oh, hello. I’ve been on air thirty seconds and my sign’s lit up saying there’s a call incoming. You hunters don’t hang around do you? Hm-hmh! Let’s see if we can catch up together. Afternoon, caller, you’re live on the air._ ”

“ _Look, it’s Jody Mills. Sheriff of Sioux Falls, South Dakota. I’ve been waiting hours for you to come on air— Can’t say I’m an expert, but I know how the hunting community works. I’ve helped out on more than a handful of wild vampire chases. I keep up. Fact is, all I’m seeing from this situation is a helluva lot of botched detective work and conclusions drawn out of thin air. Not one person commenting on this dreaded sea monster has ever met the thing face-to-face. Hasn’t seen it. Now you tell me what gives anyone the right to decide whether or not she keeps her babies, hm?_ ”

“ _Um. Forgive me – Sheriff Mills – but this is a sea_ monster _we’re talking about._ ”

“ _Who says she’s a monster? The woman who said her piece last night, the author? The monsters’ rights activist—_ ”

“ _Charlie Bradbury. She’s here with me now, in fact._ ”

“ _Yes, her. She said this monster hasn’t done any damage since the forties, and even then, all_ we _did was notice it. And Kevin – you know, the Advanced Placement kid – he said there could be only one Kraken in existence. Now, I’ve looked up how many animals have to be remaining before a species counts as endangered, but honestly, I’d say_ one _is pretty damn close to extinction. We just got this creature back from some unknown oblivion. You’re telling me you hunter folks are willing to_ cause _the extinction of a creature that up until now was thought to be_ mythical _– all for the sake of a few feet of coastline that’s all but doomed anyway?_ ”

“ _...Urm._ ”

“ _Don’t you ‘urm’ me, mister. Now, I’ve got two daughters. I’ve got a son. No parent likes explaining the hard-hitting political stuff to their children, but I’ve done enough of that for_ people _politics. Why do I now have to tell them a bunch of headstrong buffoons are still controlling birthrights? Who knows if this so-called monster is intelligent? Maybe it sounds crazy, but we don’t_ know _. We know next to nothing about this thing. Don’t get me wrong, I’m fully aware I sound like a godforsaken fool saying this, but – what if we asked it nicely to have its babies elsewhere? For all we know it might understand._ ”

“ _Ah! Yes, I’m sure—_ ”

“ _And what about scientific research?! If this creature can get as large as you’re all saying it can, isn’t that cause for... I don’t know,_ finding out _if that’s true? I just can’t believe anyone could live on this planet in a time like this, all of us so close to losing our own homes, our own safe places, our own worth as a species – and yet we’re so prepared to eliminate new threats without even finding out how their existence could benefit us. Or if we could coexist without a hassle. Ha! How cool is it, though? A sea monster in our waters, in this day and age._ ”

“ _Yes, ma’am, it is very... cool._ ”

“ _You listen to me, Cas Novak of Hunter Radio. You get yourself some know-it-alls on the air. You interview some scientists – non-hunters,_ women _– and you ask them how we could turn the presence of this pregnant beast to our advantage. You get on the phone with Norway. Make some kind of Kraken treaty, all right? Hunter Radio has always been pivotal to a lot of creature-related decisions over the years, but you’re right in the thick of it now. The world has its ears on you. You’re not a radio show any more, you’re a respected mediator in a world issue. So keep your face on straight, and you tackle the thing head-on, with the same fair and balanced worldview you say you pride yourself on. Capiche?_ ”

“...”

“ _Novak!_ ”

“ _Um. Um, yeah. Yes. I capiche. Sheriff._ ”

“ _Good._ ”

“ _Thank you for weighing in, ma’am._ ”

“ _Well, thank you, right back, Novak. If you wouldn’t mind, can I request a song?_ ”

“ _Ah... Of course you can, Sheriff. What’ll it be?_ ”

“ _Anything by Phil Collins. Really, I mean it – absolutely anything._ ”

“ _In that case:_ Another Day in Paradise _, coming right up. It’s one of my favourites. Thank you very kindly, Sheriff Jody Mills. I dare say I’ll take your suggestions on board as this saga goes on. And now, this._ ”

· · · ★ · · ·

Protest groups sprang up across the States within a matter of hours. Thousands of people, both hunters and the lovingly-titled muggles, all came marching and chanting before government buildings, on coastlines, in animal rescue centres. They had their faces painted in sea green, wearing costume tentacles for arms, children waving octopus plushies. They wanted the sea monster to live, and they wanted its babies safe.

In the floating city known as New Orleans, a barman set out a sign on his docked boat: _CRACK’N FOR KRAKEN_. He offered discounted beer to anyone who boarded and said they supported the Kraken’s right to lay her eggs anywhere she pleased.

Since the great collapse of the open Internet, no phenomenon had reached a global peak. Long-range communication had been limited to radio and telegraph broadcasting, or postage by air or sea, and public satellite communication was used for only the most urgent of transmissions. But this time? A funny meme got through.

_RELEASE THE KRAKEN_.

Tales of the Kraken surmounted the country, word of her presence and importance spreading faster than wildfire, through word of mouth, through leaflets under doors, through playground games that sprang up fully-formed in a single night – which came complete with rules, and a dance move.

People claimed to have seen her, claimed to have photographs of her, claimed she was really male. There was no end to people calling it a government conspiracy, adding to the conspiracies that monsters didn’t really exist, and The Man was out to trick God-fearing people into buying merchandise made by the Chinese to spy on everyone.

By anonymous, unanimous, and incredibly spontaneous vote, the Kraken was named Krakalackin. Nobody really argued, it just kind of happened.

In the space of forty-eight hours, Krakalackin became the darling of the United States. Newspaper comic artists drew her as Lady Liberty, one massive tentacle holding up the torch to guide other mythical creatures to safety (the unicorn came in surfing, for the record). Others drew her and Nessie lounging in a rockpool and tipping back cocktails made of stardust. Cryptid investigators went _nuts_.

Love for Krakalackin and support for her plight had taken a firm hold of the population of North America.

And, soon, the world followed.

The people of Norway celebrated the return of their fabled monster, even though her kind had eaten some of their seafaring ancestors. It was all in the past, they said. Water under the bridge, as it were. They were crack’n for Kraken, now. Ja.

In England, farmers painted their goose eggs with green speckles, jokingly claiming they were long-lost Kraken eggs. (Still looked like goose eggs, though. Nobody was fooled.)

French chefs served squid and octopus as their daily specials, maaaaybe missing the point a little bit.

Nepalese monks paused their meditation for a moment to ponder... _ah... Krakalackin_... before returning to their regularly scheduled zen.

People in Australia were so utterly unbothered by the idea of a sea monster that the news only cropped up in one corner of the paper. One mile across? Nah, mate, they’d dealt with spiders bigger than that.

North Korea pointed a bunch of missiles at the Gulf of Mexico. Russia pointed a bunch of missiles at North Korea, daring them to shoot a sea monster they’d grown oddly fond of as a people. Might be good to eat, one never knows until one tries it steeped in vodka.

Japanese tentacle enthusiasts had a good day. (A _very_ good day.)

All this aside... nobody really knew what the Kraken looked like. Or where she was, exactly.

Nobody had seen her, or heard her, or sensed her on any radars. Could it be, the hunters were wrong after all? Was _Dean Winchester_ wrong? Or _Cas Novak_ , the author who claimed in his bestselling book that the Kraken uses sonar? Where was his source? His source died in nineteen-ninety-four, so where was the proof?! Someone dig up the records from the forties, when soldiers in submarines saw a moving land mass on their radar! Someone find the Kraken!

For two days... nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

And then...!

One of the Cayman Islands _moved_.

· · · ★ · · ·

“ _This is Cas Novak, and you’re listening to Hunter Radio, sixty-six-point-six A.M. If you’re just joining us, please keep your radio on. We are in a state of emergency and you must stay updated for your own safety. Ah— Apologies if my voice shakes. I’m – um – somewhat overcome. As we all are._

“ _A wave of tsunamis is approaching the coastlines as I speak. This is no high tide; this is an enormous wall of water, rushing forth at high speed, bringing with it untold destruction. If you are on the coast, and you see the water receding from the beach, get out. Get out_ now _. This is no time to sightsee; you are in immediate danger._

“ _If you’re one of the servicepeople aiding with the evacuation, please remember to put your own safety first. You cannot help others if you perish. I’ve already heard reports of a group of angels who were gravely injured while assisting with human evacuations from Quintana Roo in Mexico; my thoughts and prayers are with them. The fourteenth or fifteenth tidal wave approaches that coast now. I warn you: these are not singular events, these will continue for some time._

“ _For anyone who doesn’t know, the Cayman Islands... They together formed a group of three islands, known as an archipelago. They previously resided about a thousand miles south-east of Houston, Texas, on the opposite side of the body of water known as the Gulf of Mexico. That’s where the sonar blast came from, which disturbed the fish late last week._

“ _These were tropical islands. Of course, all but their topmost peaks were underwater, they went under five years ago, in twenty-twenty-two._

“ _The three islands were named Grand Cayman – the largest, at seventy-five square miles – Little Cayman, and Cayman Brac. They were believed to have been formed by volcanic eruption along a subduction zone._

“ _What does that mean? Well, to put it simply: the Earth is made of tectonic rock plates which all fit together side-to-side, and when lava from inside the core of the Earth bursts up, or the plates tend to shift, we get cracks in the sea floor, and lava bubbles up and forms islands. And we get earthquakes, which result in tsunamis, when seawater rushes towards land._

“ _But this time, listeners, geologists have been proven wrong. The tsunami approaching the coastline at this moment was not caused by a shift of plates, but a shift of... a being so massive, so horrifically massive, I don’t have the words. The largest part of the archipelago was a living creature this whole time, and we never knew._

“ _Please: I must remind listeners on all southern coasts of the United States, the east of Mexico, and the north of South America, a blanket tsunami warning_ has _been issued. Move to higher ground_ immediately _. This is not a drill, a joke, or a hoax. Leave your home, your possessions. Take only the necessities. I believe this show is currently being patched through to Europe and Africa. If you’re living on the west coast – Portugal and Morocco in particular – please evacuate the coastline also. The wave won’t hit you for a day or so, and will be far smaller, but it_ is _coming._

“ _I urge you to remain calm. This sea monster means us no harm, she is simply awakening from a hibernation period that seems to have lasted at least five hundred years – since the time the Cayman Islands were discovered. She probably doesn’t know we exist, or what has changed in the world since she last surfaced. I know it seems monumentally alarming, and perhaps impossible, but this is real. This is actually happening._

“ _For the sake of your children, your pets, your loved ones, and yourself, if you live within fifteen miles of the coastline, you must evacuate without delay. Either travel inland, stay with family, friends – or if that’s not possible, get to higher ground. No, your roof is not safe, and neither is your boat, no matter how sturdy or expensive. Take enough provisions to last everyone at least a week. Take water. Take first aid kits, solar chargers, and blankets. Take medication if it’s required._

“ _I will be repeating this warning every few minutes until the warning clears, and there’s no telling how long that could take. Pamela will play back a recording of the warnings later on, but stay tuned, as new updates and new warnings will be announced as they happen. There won’t be any music._

“ _N-Now, uhm... I’m getting word, photographers have – transmitted an aerial view of... of Krakalackin. Here we go. Pamela’s showing me a screen, this is broadcasting live on SNN right now. If you’re not packing your valuables to evacuate, and you have access to satellite television, turn on your TV. Hhh... My God. My God – that’s—?_ ”

Dean looked up from the motel radio, hand snatching for the TV remote. “Sam!” he barked, kicking the next bed along. “Sammy, they got the thing on camera.”

“Uhh?” Sam rolled over in the bed, sitting up. Dean stood to turn on the TV channel, flipping through blurry, fuzzy images until he saw the corrupted logo of SNN in the bottom corner.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean breathed, talking over Castiel’s awe in the background. “Look at that.”

“Hoooly _shit_ ,” Sam breathed, clearly overjoyed.

Daylight glazed the surface of the sea. The plane carrying the camera was flying so far up there were clouds in the image, and the sea didn’t look like the sea, it looked like a blank white sheet. Ripples and waves were mere pixels. The emptiness was disturbed by a single mass. This was, by all standards, an aerial view of an island.

“ _—approximately fifty miles long,_ ” Castiel spoke in a mutter from the 1980s alarm clock radio between the two beds. “ _She moves like a snake, or... or a dolphin, ducking beneath the surface, the rest of her body following the channel her snout makes. There are really no words to describe how gargantuan this creature is, listeners. The Chrysler Building could be one of her eyelashes. The splash around her body is barely seen, but – yes – as the plane moves in closer, we see that the water doesn’t so much_ splash _as... heave away. Her body is evolved to cut the water, to move with the currents, but there’s no stopping the force that explodes from her belly as she slinks under. The sea is_ bending _to the shape and size of the Kraken. This is why there’s a tsunami coming. Ripples, shockwaves,_ miles _across are being forced out across the entire ocean every few moments._

“ _Up she comes again; the water pressurises downward into a crater; it forms a hood over her head as she rises. Slowly it falls away, a white water mask melting into a shattered ocean. We— We see her face for the first time. Ah..._ ” Castiel’s voice vanished in a fuzz of breath, a helpless laugh. Dean could just imagine the awed lines around his eyes, the hand scrunched into his messy, greasy hair. Cas had been speaking almost non-stop for twenty hours in this time of world crisis, and Dean hadn’t left his side once. This was as steadfast as Dean could be, miles away, with only a radio in a motel room to connect them.

“ _I dare say, listeners... there’s only one thing that comes to mind for me, when I see this. When I wrote my book, ‘_ Monster-Hunter’s Muse: Great Beasts from the Past _’ I did the extensive research you’d expect for a book of composite findings. There was one particular photograph. A piece of pottery from ancient China, from the Qin Dynasty. A bulbous white thing, a vase with a glossy glaze. On it, painted in fine red lines, there was an intricate, four-limbed creature with a snake-like body, fish scales like rounded scallops, a jaw that protruded as it roared. All around it came down fire, flames, catastrophe_ raining _into a tumultuous sea as the beast reared from the water. It had long whiskers, a pair of feelers like those of a catfish. Its eyes were wild, and... surprisingly human. Cartoonish, you might say. Its expression always seemed worried to me._ ”

With a breath escaping him, Castiel finished, “ _The Qin Dynasty ended in two-oh-six B.C. – that’s two thousand, two hundred, and thirty-three years ago. This— This creature that we’re looking at, its kind has been around long before the rise and fall of the Roman Empire. Since before the great eruption of Vesuvius. For her to have grown this big, she has to be..._ many _more thousands of years old. While the mighty reptiles went extinct, she survived._ ”

Dean sat heavily on the end of the bed next to Sam. They stared at the static-blurry image of the Kraken as she made her steady way towards the Gulf of Mexico.

Dean felt like he was floating. This was all incredibly surreal for him, a bit more than he’d ever seen before, despite all his years of seeing everything. His hand was lax around the remote, dazedly listening to Castiel speak on theories, things about Krakalackin being the original Kraken, _the alpha Kraken_ , an immortal. If it could be true for vampires, werewolves, sirens, dragons, and jellyfish, perhaps it was true for sea monsters of unimaginable size.

“ _Perhaps she sought the warmth of lava, pouring through the crack in the ocean floor,_ ” Castiel said. “ _She lay along the fault line for more than five centuries. She slept for so long she became a part of the Earth, a part of human history._

“ _The Cayman Islands were long revered as sanctuary islands, for settlers during the turn of the seventeenth century. Then pirates. And then the rich and wealthy. The islands were tax havens; traders, criminals and shamefaced business-people alike fled there with massive amounts of cash, assuming they’d get to keep it all, and live lavishly in a pleasant tropical climate. Krackalackin’s exposed shoulder was a temporary home to travellers, and thieves, and those who just wanted a sunny vacation. Over the years she was hit by hurricanes, and tidal waves, and airports were built upon her back, and still she did not wake._

“ _The sea monsters of Norway were far smaller. Presumably they were each only a few centuries old. If they all died during the Second World War, perhaps the alpha... knows. Perhaps she’s the last of her kind once again, as all her descendants have been wiped out. Perhaps she hit snooze a few times on her alarm clock – eighty years is_ nothing _to her. Five minutes. Just waiting to see if a great-great-grandchild would swim her way once the seasons changed. But none did._

“ _Perhaps it’s time. The age of the Kraken has come again._ ”

· · · ★ · · ·

Dean cradled Sam’s little portable radio to his chest. Another night, another motel room. Another kind of monster blood stained his boots, tossed on the carpet, left there when they returned from yesterday’s hunt. It was after midnight, now.

In Dean’s other hand was his plastic pegasus, wings spread. He made it gallop in slow motion across his pillow, grey hooves touching to the crisp cotton, leaving the faintest of indents.

While Sam slept, Dean listened.

“ _I’m on board the Montego Bay Sea Life Sanctuary Ark,_ ” Castiel bellowed over the wind to be heard, “ _and I’m here with Dr. Arden Jamiel – good afternoon – oh, damn—_ ”

Dr. Jamiel laughed warmly, her voice strengthening as the microphone finally reached her. “ _Careful, it’s slippery. Welcome, Mr. Novak. I’m completely honoured to be among the first to be interviewed face-to-face by your show. You never used to do this before, did you?_ ”

“ _Ah... yes – I mean, no,_ ” Castiel said, breathing hastily as the sound of yelping seabirds and gushing waves assailed the audio. “ _If you don’t mind, I— Oh—_ ”

“ _Let’s go inside. Haven’t found your sea legs, have you..._ ”

Dean grinned through the fumbling pause that extended for a few moments. He’d heard this interview segment before, but he liked the re-runs. He liked noticing the pauses in Cas’ breath, the words he chose, the things Dean hadn’t noticed the first time around.

“ _Forgive me, I’ve never been at home out at sea._ ” Castiel spoke more easily now, as the clap of a door sealed him inside. “ _You’ve made a good thing of it, Doctor. First the encroaching waterline turned your sea life sanctuary into... well, part of the scenery. Then the tsunamis last month destroyed what was left._ ”

“ _Yeah-yeah, a long run of bad luck. But we’ve been relocating our protected marine life for the last seven years. And as they say – hindsight is twenty-twenty, foresight not so much. Present company excluded, obviously, ha-ha. Yet we thought ahead and made the right decision, getting the jump on the rising sealine before it reached us. We operate from inside a repurposed cruise ship, now._ ”

“ _And now you have... what’s this?_ ”

“ _This is a Hawksbill sea turtle, and a lovely, lovely specimen, too. See the dark patches on the side of her face? She’s gorgeous. We call her Aleta, which is Spanish for ‘flipper’. We keep her in the biggest aquarium, we’re on the way to rehome her and her family near South Carolina._ ”

Castiel made an amicable noise. “ _Sea turtles have a long history in this part of the world, don’t they?_ ”

“ _Oh, absolutely,_ ” Dr. Jamiel said. “ _Krakalackin was home to a great many turtles – in fact the turtles were the main draw to the Cayman Islands for settlers, who loved the taste of their meat. Christopher Columbus named the islands after the turtles: the place was originally Las Tortugas. Later it was named for the crocodiles, the caymans. When Krakalackin moved from her spot, she disrupted the delicate wildlife environments, including those of the sea turtles, all of which are endangered._ ”

“ _But you think there’s the possibility they can be saved._ ”

“ _Always! Always, Mr. Novak. No species is beyond saving. That’s exactly why we’re fighting to protect Krakalackin too. We want to make sure the eggs she’s currently working on burying in lava will be kept safe, and her babies grow up strong, in a suitable environment. There’s years and years of research we can do, we can find out so much about her and her kind. We’re willing to put the time in, and people’s donations will undoubtedly help give us answers that humanity’s been craving for centuries. We have the technology, and the staff. We want to learn._ ”

“ _All right. Details on how_ you _can donate to the Montego Bay Sea Life Sanctuary Ark will be broadcast later, listeners, stay tuned to find out how,_ ” Castiel said easily. “ _In the meantime, Doctor, I have some questions..._ ”

Dean rolled over in his bed, yawning. Listening to Cas made it so easy to fall asleep. His thumb stroked the ridged texture of his pegasus’ wings, over and over.

The words from the radio merged, becoming murky in the back of Dean’s mind. But he woke up a little, startled as he heard his own name.

“ _You haven’t seen them come by, have you?_ ”

Dr. Jamiel repeated in a thoughtful tone, “ _Sam and Dean Winchester?_ ” She hummed. “ _No... No, I don’t think so. Why?_ ”

“ _Ah. No, no, don’t worry, I was simply curious. I’ve been following their trail... getting sidetracked, mind, but there’s a lot of people putting a lot of stock in their whereabouts._ ”

Dean smiled, thinking Cas probably just meant himself.

“ _They’re those brothers, the monster-hunting heroes you talk about on your show, aren’t they?_ ” Jamiel’s smile bled into her words she spoke. “ _Best I can say, Mr. Novak? They’re heroes for staying out of it. Letting scientists make the first moves._ ”

“Told ya so,” Dean mumbled sleepily at Sam. Sam snored.

Dr. Jamiel went on, saying, “ _Krakalackin has been here longer than any of us can imagine. All I can say is that she exists on the Earth for a reason. Maybe that reason is to disrupt the planet, thereby resetting a collapsing environment to neutral, to begin terraforming again. Maybe it’s the opposite: to unite us all in a time of ongoing war. Say what you will about humans, or angels, or even monsters – but almost all of us stood firm, in unified support, when we realised we aren’t the greatest thing that’s ever happened to this planet. We are all... specks. Nothing compared to this beast. But that doesn’t mean we can’t make a difference when we set our minds to it and join together._ ”

As he finally fell asleep, Dean’s mind drifted on a sea current, and he let gentle voices narrate his dreams.

· · · ★ · · ·


	8. Undivine Revelations

_I'm all out of love, I'm so lost without you;_  
_I know you were right, believing for so long—_

Castiel sighed into his microphone. With unfocused, morning-sticky eyes, he tried to look beyond, where the dim lights of his home studio glazed bronze across a hundred angel blades, locked in their wall-sized glass case. He only saw points of illumination. He himself was encased in four walls of brown.

He adjusted his headphones over his ears, then thumbed at an itch on his bare forehead, eyebrows raised. His fingers strayed to his scar, which was left uncovered. For years it had felt almost foreign to touch, as if he were touching someone else’s skin. But now, the toughened nerves on his temple registered his caress, and he only felt like himself.

_I'm all out of love, what am I without you?_  
_I can't be too late, to say that I was so wrooong..._

“Good morning, listeners,” he said, as the song faded out. “That was _All out of Love_ by Air Supply. I hope you’ve enjoyed our overnight broadcast, and you’re looking forward to the Monday-morning lineup that’s on its way in just a few minutes. I’m Cas Novak, and you’re listening to Hunter Radio, at sixty-six point six A.M. We’re just coming up to seven o’clock, central time – if you’re a morning person, time to hop out of bed and get the children ready for school. At least, I’ll assume that’s what normal people do around now. Personally I’d rather stay curled up in bed, but alas: activity thrives in the world, and I am here to tell you about it.”

“As you may know, on Friday, the U.S. Congress finally scraped together a Bill of Rights specifically for the protection of Kraken species. Blatantly ignoring the wishes of the President – damn him, the Devil – instead Senator Sanders contacted the European Union, and talks are in progress concerning worldwide protections for Krakalackin and her unborn hatchlings. If you’re interested, transcripts are gradually becoming available on government channel six.

“Now, I’ll begin with a special news update, sent in by Garth Fitzgerald the Third: a listener who’s proved to be a very helpful and credible source, this past year. I believe he’s down in Louisiana right now, helping with the tsunami cleanup operation.

Castiel swallowed twice, rustling his typewriter pages in one uneasy hand. “Uhm. We— We have... a tale of a woman who aided in a rescue operation over the weekend. Garth says her name is Anna. All around Anna lay debris and rubble – floating trash and sunken cars, abandoned on the flooded roads. Anna pulled a dying woman out of a collapsed building and into her rubber boat. Our witnesses – Mr. Fitzgerald included – watched as Anna took the woman’s hand, and within a moment, healed the stranger to perfect health.

“In doing so, Anna revealed her nature as an angel,” Castiel said, mouth draining dry. “When the rescue boat returned to dry land, the saved woman told her story to anyone who would listen. Unfortunately... later that afternoon, Mr. Fitzgerald received a telephone call from Anna, asking for help.

“She’d been hurt. Attacked. By whom, it’s unclear, although I shall only assume hunters. Who else would see a healer as an enemy?”

Eyes gleaming, Castiel looked pleadingly towards a vanquished Heaven. “I’m sorry, listeners. Emotion and personal affiliation may be getting the better of me. The thing is, I know her personally. Anna was... and perhaps still is, a friend of mine, though we haven’t spoken in many years. Not since the angels fell.”

Castiel gulped again, forcing himself to keep his voice steady. “Anna Milton, she called herself. She had blood-red hair down to her waist, a slight frame, dove-white skin. Her human form... seems frail at first glance, but I’ve known her in battle, and I know her strength. Though her body is flawed, she _is_ strong. She will pull through. She will, even if her power is drained to nothing now, after healing another. She is a strong person and I have the utmost faith in her.”

Castiel bowed his head, feeling a tear drip from the corner of his eye. He let go of a trembling breath, trying to set down his notes before he ripped them. The paper’s edge stroked the side of his hand as he let go. “Ah...”

Unable to speak, he became distracted by a tickle on his hand. He brushed it with his thumb, only to feel it sting. He looked, and saw a tiny pink line on the tender side of his hand.

“A papercut,” he whispered to himself.

He was sure he was meant to move on, and cheerfully talk about something else, something important...

A rattle of interference sounded in his ears. “ _So sorry, listeners, seems we’re having some technical difficulties,_ ” Pamela said coolly. “ _How ‘bout y’all enjoy some tunes while we work to get this fixed._ ”

The sound of music filled Castiel’s ears.

He felt a gush of air from the kitchen sweep against his back as Pamela entered the recording studio. “Looks like we didn’t give you enough coffee, hm?” she said, patting Castiel on the back with a warm, welcome hand. “Come on,” she said, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “Let’s call this the final straw. New rule: you can’t go live without getting breakfast in ya belly first. Out. Out.” She rotated Castiel by his shoulders and scooted him out of the room.

The kitchen of their shared apartment was dim but cosy, both lower and upper rows of cupboards covered with brown fake-wood lacquer. The smell of microwaved coffee resided in the air almost permanently.

“Come on, sweetcheeks, what d’ya want? Grits? Cornflakes? I can do you some toast, there’s half a jar of peanut butter I didn’t stick a licked spoon in yet.”

Castiel just stared at his cut hand. It radiated with something that wasn’t quite full-fledged pain, but something rather more bothersome. It sang at an uncomfortable high note, appearing to him as a bright light. Too bright.

“It...” Castiel stared harder, waiting, but when nothing changed, he completed his sentence. “It won’t heal.”

Pamela said nothing at first. She turned around, opened a cupboard, then faced Castiel and handed him a Band-Aid. “Welcome to being human. Silver lining: you get a mini Road Runner to keep you company.” Without a fuss, she lay the adhesive bandage over the cut. “Meep-meep! These buggers only hurt because they’re exposed to the air – no blood to smother the pain receptors, see.” She tapped at the covered wound. “It’ll stop bothering you soon.”

Castiel struggled to swallow. He felt distant from his body again. He’d suffered mortal wounds in the past, and those reminded him how easy it was to die. They made him clutch at himself to keep everything together. This? This made him want to vacate his body, exit this plane of existence, and sulk somewhere else.

“What now? You want me to kiss it better?” Pamela narrowed her blank eyes. “Hate to kick you while you’re down, but that kind of thing’s reserved for parents and pretty-boy prophets only. You track down Dean, you get _him_ to smooch you better.”

“I— I never said I needed—”

“There’s mourning all over your aura, dumplin’. But I don’t do boo-boos like your boyfriend would.” She winked.

Castiel shook his head. “No. No, it’s okay, I appreciate what you’ve done. Thank you.” He bent and stretched his hand, feeling the Band-Aid tug on his skin.

“Toast? PBJ?”

“Oh... yes please.”

Pamela clapped Castiel on the shoulder and went to wash her hands. “So what’s the dealio, now? You still blinking with fifteen eyes if you’re out of angel juice?”

Castiel reached dazedly for the back of a dining chair, scraped its feet on the tiles, then plopped down into it, resting his elbows on his knees. He ran a hand over his heart, scrunching the vintage t-shirt he’d slept in. “I see... everything I saw before. Only now—” He screwed up his face, one fist pressed to his forehead. “Gives me a headache. Ow.”

“Drink this,” Pamela said, handing him a glass of pulpy orange juice. “Eat this.” She crammed some dark chocolate between his lips. “Read this.” On the breakfast table, she slapped down a paperback book about healthy eating. “Your curfew is eleven p.m..”

Castiel bit into the chocolate, then held the remainder between his fingers as he looked at his friend. “Tell me again you’re not my parent.”

“I’m not,” she said firmly. “Co-worker. Who maybe cares about you a little too much. Speaking of—” She checked her pocket watch, “If you’re not up to it, I’ll take over your shift.”

“I still have my morning tarot reading to do,” Castiel muttered. “I want... to...” His mind was all ablur, he couldn’t quite focus. Anna, Dean. Anna, Dean. Angels, tarot, food. He just wanted to sleep now.

Soon, Pamela slid a plate onto the table, peanut butter on grainy toast. She set the jelly jar down next to it, with a knife on top.

Castiel glanced at her and smiled with gratitude. “I’ll eat this,” he promised her. “Then I’ll be... up to it. I think it’s time. Time I told the world what I am. Or what I was, until now.”

“Five minutes?”

“Five minutes.”

· · · ★ · · ·

“ _Dear listeners..._

“ _Now is usually the moment I’d read the day’s fortune on air. I’d pick a tarot card which carries a message for me, helping me shape my future – and in doing so, perhaps I’d give you direction for your own day. However, the present moment calls not for a look into the future, but a look into the past. My past._

“ _What I am about to tell you is... well-considered, but unrehearsed. Though I am an orator by profession, I am not a speechmaker. But... ah... this time I will ‘give it my all’, as they say._

“ _I’ve... changed. I’ve changed in the past few weeks. Before, I would go about my day wearing an elaborate masquerade mask, to hide my scarred face. Below the mask I wore a layer of cosmetic purple, decorated with reflective stars. Below that, I wore a... a personality, that was... part of me, yes, but not wholly myself. At my core, I have the nature of river water. I can be aggressive, I swell with the storms. But, left to my own devices – in private, off air – I flow gently. I am easygoing. Patient. I adapt to the lay of the land. For me, that includes evading the hills of perceived danger. For six years, I’ve changed my voice when I broadcast on air, for my own protection. You know me as this... deep-voiced, masculine... man._

“ _But..._

“ _This. This is my real voice. Still deep. But this is me, unfiltered. I’ve switched the voice-changer off. I stand behind the microphone with no mask. No makeup. No costume. I’m still wearing the clothes I slept in. My face is scarred. My feet are bare. My breath smells like peanut butter and raspberry jelly._

“ _Well... What changed? Why, after six years, do I now reveal my vulnerabilities? Why am I less afraid to interview people face-to-face? Why did I try out green makeup with gold stars instead of purple and silver, last week?_

“ _The reason..._

“ _Hm! The reason is Dean Winchester._

“ _This is the story of how we met._ ”

· · · ★ · · ·

Dean stared into the mirror, one eyebrow done.

Sam paused while shaving, grinning at Dean. “They’re sisters, not twins, quit overthinking it,” he laughed.

Dean snorted, leaning in to fill in his second eyebrow. “Ain’t the brows, it’s... I dunno. I had a really weird dream last night.”

Sam set his razor back to his jawline. “Can’t say I’m surprised, Dean. We both know the kind of wacky segments Cas ends up broadcasting after two in the morning. Maybe you should try turning the radio _off_ before bed.”

“It’s for emergencies,” Dean lied. “In case of, y’know, tsunami warnings. Or a plague of locusts. Or frogs. Fuck knows what’s coming next.”

“Right, it’s not because you get yourself off under the covers listening to him droning on about his half-finished book for hours on end,” Sam uttered.

“No,” Dean said, avoiding Sam’s gaze. “He was talkin’ about squid or some shit, I dunno.” Dean devoted his focus to the neat edge of his right eyebrow, then went back to even up the left one.

“So what was the dream you had?” Sam asked, rinsing off his razor, bending to wash his face.

Dean put his pocket-sized angled brush back into the circular compact, closing it up. “Well,” he said, frowning, “it kind of started with Krackalackin. She does her deep dive, swims down to the dark and spooky seabed, where all you see is blackness. Then there’s... lava. Glowing. Bubbles rising, all’a that.”

“Yeah?”

Dean met his own well-outlined eyes in his reflection. “She lays a few thousand eggs in a fault line, where the Earth’s heat comes up boiling all the time. Hell knows how they don’t hard-boil, but whatever, they’re fuckin’ first-gen sea monsters, not chickens. They hatch, like, fifty years later. And there’s these tiny Kraken babies scootin’ around the deep ocean. I say tiny – they’re building-sized when they hatch.”

“Wonder what they eat,” Sam uttered, reaching for tooth floss.

“Right?” Dean started ruffling up his hair, mind elsewhere. “In my dream they absorbed water. That’s how they get so big, like Cas theorised in his book. Suck in all the nutrients and toxins or whatever from the water, and they just... swell up. For years. Growing and growing. Their increasing mass never changes the water level, since they subtract the same amount from around them.”

Sam paused with tooth floss wrapped around his fingers, eyes set on Dean in the mirror.

Dean looked back steadily. He shrugged a shoulder. “And then they get tired. Once a millennia, or something. Along comes an ice age. So they swim where it’s warm, and they sleep. They freeze over, floating above sea-level. Stay like that for years. Then the Earth gets hot, and they... thaw out. Go looking for mates, or lay some asexually-fertilised eggs, Komodo dragon style.”

“When you say ‘the Earth gets hot’... you mean like... global warming.”

“Yeah.” Dean gulped. He forced out a laugh. “I mean, it was a freaky Hunter Radio-induced dream, I ain’t putting too much stock in it.”

“Was that all? The life cycle of the Kraken?” Sam smiled, wriggling floss between his front teeth. “Doesn’t seem too far-fetched, compared to the rest of the weirdness.”

“Yeah, well, it kind of got kookier from there,” Dean muttered, sliding his hand over his tufty hair one last time, then leaving the bathroom to look for his backpack. “Train leaves in fifteen, grab your stuff already.”

“Wait,” Sam said, following Dean, drying his face with a towel, tooth floss forgotten. “What was the rest of the dream?”

Dean chuckled and waved a hand. “Ehh...” He sobered, rubbing the back of his neck. “The ocean fills up with Kraken babies. There’s thousands of these things. Barely any space for them. And another ice age comes. So they all try and hibernate, but there’s so many of them, and it’s so cold, they all kind of... lump together for warmth. But it gets so cold, they freeze over. A-And they all die. Except their great-great-great – great to infinity – grandmom. Good ol’ Krackalackin, always the biggest, survived a thousand-year winter alone.” Dean gulped. Then he laughed. “Polar bears, though. Polar bears are happy.”

“The Arctic? You’re saying the Arctic is made of _dead Krakens_?”

“C’mon, it’s a dream! I’m not saying anything.”

“What the _hell_ ,” Sam intoned.

“Dude.” Dean stood in front of Sam, pointing into Sam’s eyes, then his own eyes. “It. was. a. _dream_.”

“So, what – do they turn into water after they die? If all they eat is water, they’re probably mostly water, right? So if they froze—”

“Sam—”

“I’m just saying! It’s crazy but it’s not _that_ crazy. We’ve both had visions before. You’re a prophet of God, remember? I’ve had dreams where I see the future, why couldn’t you see the past?”

“Because the Arctic is made of _ice_ , Sam! Not the curled-up corpses of a thousand overgrown water snakes!”

“But—”

“But _nothing_. No way. It’s too – _bizarre_. God, I sound like a conspiracy theorist just sayin’ it aloud. My dream ended with Krakalackin absorbing all the excess water, the stuff that’s been melting from the Arctic for all our lives. She grows so big she’s a continent by herself. Second-generation human-angel kids take back Houston, New Orleans, Delaware. We get our coastlines back. Why? ‘Cause Krackalackin is sad about her babies dying, and she swims off to join them. She dies up there, her body freezes over, and _we’re saved_.”

Dean turned away, anger in his jaw and tears in his eyes. “Look, if there’s _any_ truth to it, there’s at least fifty years to wait. She ain’t abandoning that last clutch of babies.” Glancing back at Sam, Dean gave him a weak smile. “We gotta look after them, Sammy. She’s... she’s trusting us. She trusts us to keep them alive when she’s gone.”

Sam stared back, unsure. “So... it _wasn’t_ just a dream.”

Dean breathed in, lifting his arms in a wide shrug. He was about to speak, but hesitated, listening. “Hey...”

He hurried to Sam’s portable radio, which was propped up against a Bakelite telephone on the nightstand between the beds. He took the radio and turned up the volume.

“What—?”

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean said, frowning as he twisted the radio knob a little leftwards.

Static.

“Dean, what—”

“Shh!”

From the radio came only fuzz, interference and nothingness. No music, no advertisements, no words.

And then, out of the haze, Dean heard Castiel’s breath.

He began softly, but with purpose. Eight words.

“ _This is the story of how we met._ ”

Dean sat down on the end of the motel bed. Sam sat more slowly on the foot of the other one, looking at Dean while Dean stared at the little radio.

“ _Our tale begins long before we ever knew of each other’s existence. When my father abandoned me and my siblings, infighting began in my home. I escaped the fighting to spend some time by myself._

“ _My first awareness of the greatness of planet Earth was when I found out about dinosaurs,_ ” Castiel said. “ _I believe a lot of young children experience the same, even today. On a smaller scale, perhaps. But the diplodocus was my favourite. I like the peaceful kinds. Great and mighty, but rarely wilfully destructive. I’d watch them graze for years on end. I had... very little else to do. I simply watched._

“ _Civil war is something I’m sure a lot of you have experienced. Again, on a small scale; a spat between newlyweds about the bills, a squabble between toddlers over a good piece of candy. Me... Oh, my family was a riot. We brought down cathedrals the size of galaxies, deciding which of us got to be the leader now our father was gone. I led an army. All the soldiers were siblings of mine._ ”

There was a long pause – Dean and Sam looked at each other, sensing the tension Castiel’s silence brought. No one person could be unaffected by war. Castiel was ruined by it.

“ _I killed thousands,_ ” Castiel whispered. “ _My family. Brothers and sisters I_ loved _. It went on so long I forgot why we began. We lost our objectives over the millennia. I turned from a sprightly young thing to a jagged haze of spite, temper as short as a blade of grass in the dead of winter. I lost my head. As did we all._

“ _Throughout this, we missed the chance to see something spectacular. As a group, that is. Individually, some would escape the fighting to look upon God’s green Earth. There we saw... peace. Volcanoes erupted, the ground shook, great monstrous beasts lurked on every plain. Yet there could be harmony between peoples. A harsh world drew enemies together for a common cause. I tried to take those values to my family, to show them a better way—_ ”

Castiel’s laugh was thin, and his fatigue showed in his breath.

“ _I wanted peace. But I didn’t know what peace would look like, yet. It seemed unobtainable. I was cast aside as a leader, as my values aligned with no-one else’s._

“ _I spent a hundred-thousand years hovering just below the cloudline, semi-visible to the human eye. I became an infinitely changing cumulonimbus cloud, endlessly circling the globe. I watched. I listened. I observed under the assumption that humans were my father’s most perfect creations. Those were the teachings of God Himself._ ”

“ _The longer I watched, the more I disagreed. Humans were flawed. Fatalistic. Fragile. But_ because _of all that – I loved humanity. I loved the smallness, the... the cuteness. The delicate nature of your lives. How special it had to be to leave your home, not knowing if you would return. I discovered peace for myself, watching Earth._

“ _In my home, we collected the souls of your departed. Cared for them, in a way. So many humans valued the idea that there was a better place to go once they passed on. You work all your lives in the hope that if you’re good enough, pious enough, you’re granted a place in Heaven. Jannah. Valhalla. Whatever the word, it was represented in my place of origin._

“ _But in all my thousands of years watching humans go from cave-dwellers to either owners of the penthouse or street beggars, I still thought this world seemed more precious than Paradise. What beauty is there in perfection, anyway? The perfection of Paradise is ever-changing in the moment, suiting every whim. But I had lived so long within a place of perceived perfection, that to me, it was not perfect. I’d watched Earth for a hundred-thousand years, and, having learned what I truly desired, I went back to war. I decided there was value in struggle, in_ working _for what I wanted, as humans do. Challenge made the prize so much sweeter. That was why I fought. That was why I fought for so long and never stopped. I wanted peace. There was no value in peace achieved simply by leaving the fray. I fought more battles. Yes, I wanted peace at the end, but for_ everyone _, not just for me._ ”

Dean inhaled, sitting up a bit straighter. That was why he fought, too. He’d never heard anyone say it that way before.

“ _I took my place as a leader once again, and some did follow. But then..._

“ _There were rumors before the Purge happened, of course – angels said God was returning, but so few of us really believed it. There were signs. Oh, were there signs. Our twisted pink galaxy rose from the wrong side at dawn. Betrayers turned to dust in the light. But anything is easily explainable when you don’t believe. We were dismissive._

“ _The day the portals between Heaven and Hell opened up on Earth and we were sucked through, I was lifted from a glittered lilac lawn and thrown back through the same atoms of water I’d befriended centuries ago. My new humanoid form crash-landed in a churning, grey-silt sea and swam for land, wings waterlogged and invisible._

“ _I stole shoes, and clothes, and I soon ended up in the basement of a homeless shelter. I spoke only Enochian and other ancient, extinct languages. But I quickly learned English, and Spanish, and some Chinese Mandarin, listening to others speak. I’d hear tales. All these angels, people would say, all these new fireball beings who arrived on Earth, confused and sparking with power, they came through portals._

“ _There were indeed portals. A gaping void formed in the thermosphere over Nebraska – and another off the coast of Atlantic City, where I came through. I’m sure you’ve all seen pictures by now. Angels. Demons. What came through those portals changed society on Earth forever._

“ _As it happens, that homeless shelter was where I first heard the name._ Dean Winchester _._ ”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “That’s me! What?”

Sam chuckled.

“ _Dean Winchester came face-to-unseeable-face with my father. A father who’d been absent and silent for a million more years than I can bear to think about. The way I heard it, Dean walked naked up a mountain and was struck by lighting. And he had the kind of revelation reserved for God’s prophets. Dean Winchester received the Holy Word. And—_ ” Castiel laughed quietly, “ _Knowing now the man Dean is, I’m not surprised. But Dean? Dean received the Holy Word, and he talked back._ ”

Dean smiled. “I mean, he ain’t far off,” he mumbled.

Sam snuffled and whacked a hand across Dean’s knee, affectionate.

“ _As Dean spoke to God, he was offered two choices. Peace. Or none. Peace would mean death. Endless nothingness henceforth; no Paradise, no Hell. Dean made his choice on the behalf of all humans. The compromise, evidently, was that the planes of the afterlife were purged. Down came the angels. Nobody knows what happened to the billions of souls already freed from their mortal confines. But, much like I had decided for myself, Dean told God he’d take a struggle over apathy._ ”

Castiel took a breath, then exhaled. And then he said, gently, “ _You may think Dean’s choice was the wrong one. But at least you’re still alive to think that. For me... The moment I heard that story, I began to fall in love._ ”

Dean felt warmth sinking through his bones. He couldn't meet Sam’s eyes, but he knew his brother was smiling.

“ _I’d landed in the USA, of all places,_ ” Castiel went on. “ _The land of the free, where people make their fortune with a handful of coins and a dream. It wasn’t that easy. I wandered the country, homeless, until Pamela Barnes caught me communing with the pigeons, and offered me a job. I must’ve been naïve not to see it then, and not to see it after: she knew what I was. She saw a future within me, as I saw the same in her. She became a friend. And together we threw our psychic passions out into the world._

“ _Hunter Radio began as a pirate station, broadcast within a fifteen-mile radius of the roof of a university building. We bribed a security guard to get there. It took four months before we got our first sponsor – a toothpaste company who thought we were a fictional radio show._ ”

Dean smirked, turning to lie back on the motel room bed, one boot crossed over his ankle.

“ _We grew. We grew to a hundred miles. We got an apartment, turned one bedroom into a soundproof studio; I’m standing in it now. Made enough money that Pamela quit her job as a fairground psychic, for the most part. Two hundred miles. Satellite. At times we gained listeners a thousand a minute. We developed from reporting on weird activity and reading fortunes to conducting hunts remotely. We reconnected a community of rootless, nomadic people who’d lost their network the moment the public Internet died and cellphone companies folded. We were... saving people... hunting things._ ”

Sam laughed out loud. Dean looked his way, clicked his fingers and pointed congratulatory finger guns at him.

“ _I began writing. Publishing. All the while, hearing stories of those same Winchester brothers. There was just something about Dean that always intrigued me. Sam too, of course, but_ Dean _..._ ”

Dean blushed, but acted natural when he felt Sam’s eyes on him.

“ _I met him at the Oklahoma Autumn Carnival a few weeks ago. I saw how his soul glowed. Glowed like the light of Heaven, a home I’d missed. And at that point, there was no going back. His kiss was like lightning, a touch of electricity in his soul. He tasted the way I remembered the air tasting on a cloudy day. He looked at me like no other being ever had._

“ _He was small only in comparison to a galaxy; he was large in every other way. In mind. In spirit. In body – at least compared to most. He was_ mortal _. He had freckles, and talked with entire syllables clipped from the ends of his words. He carried a pistol in a belt holster. He wore smudged eyeliner from the day before._

“ _He pushed me too hard with his questions, past the point I was comfortable going. And at the same time, in the same action, he brought out the best in me. He made my heart_ beat _. Beat in a way I’d never been aware of before. He made me feel like the human I’d been pretending to be for years. Everything felt real. Touches made me sensitive. I saw my own smile in the mirror and realised he put it there; realised that the flesh prison I’d arrived on Earth wearing was in fact a tool to enjoy Dean even more. I was... invited to spend a night with him. And I did._ ”

Dean was trembling. Fist curled, palm-down on his heart. He swallowed twice, lips twitching into a smile.

“ _He loved like an incoming tide. Gentle at first. Gentle always. But the moment I gave in, he engulfed me so intently that I was fully underwater. I could have been overwhelmed, but he let me lead. I became the tide myself. I joined with him and felt his entire body below my own. I’d never realised how beautiful humans could be until I loved him. Fascinating, yes, enough that I remained entranced for a hundred-thousand years. But Dean was beautiful. From his words, to his soul, to his kindness, to his pressure, he was... perfect._

“ _Yes, I say perfect: I could not have asked for more. I would change nothing. Again, he made me vulnerable, and I cannot_ tell _you how impressive it is that a naked man could remove his weapon and still weaken an_ angel _so greatly, with only kindness and affection._

“ _He taught me that_ this _is how we have to win,_ ” Castiel said, voice breaking. “ _We need to win with love. I cannot take the blade or the bullets from everyone’s hand. But I can rally forces with a single cry: throw_ down _your weapon. Be kinder. Be softer. Ask your enemy what peace would look like for them. The only enemies we have to fight are the ones who answer with ‘you beneath my feet’._ ”

“ _I give over everything I have, now. I surrender. Let the truth ring out, dear listeners: Cas Novak was never a man. My name is Castiel, and I fell not once, but twice. Once, from Heaven. And once, in love._

“ _Hunter Radio was a mask, keeping my truth hidden. I divest my mask, and I reveal a new name for this broadcast. Let it be Angel Radio. We are a hunters’ network; we save people, and we hunt things – but only the evil things. We broadcast for everyone. We take calls from all sides. We are not an enemy. We are not neutral! Instead we stand for everyone with compassion in their hearts, because this war—_ ” Castiel breathed slowly, “ _This war is over._ ”

Dean sat up straight, staring at the radio.

Was that possible? Was it possible to end a war by announcing that it was over?

Could it be that simple?

“ _Dean Winchester,_ ” came the shattered voice from the tiny grill speaker. “ _Dean... If you’re listening... I’m out of power. I’m mortal now. I gifted you some of the last power I had – and I gifted you my heart, too. Peace, for me, would include you._ ” He dragged in a difficult breath, then uttered, most tenderly, “ _Dean... If you still want me... let me know._ ”

· · · ★ · · ·

Castiel went quiet. He shut his eyes and rested his forehead on the top of his microphone.

He needed to let his heart settle. The pulse in his throat was close to strangling him.

He breathed out, letting his eyes slit open. A light came on, on the recording table at his hip, drawing his attention immediately.

 _Call Incoming_.

A soft white luminescence shone from behind each letter. The sign did not flash or flicker. It simply glowed, patiently, waiting for him to answer.

Someone out there was furious, Castiel thought. How dare he announce such a thing on the radio. How dare he be so egotistical to believe he had the power to bring order to worldwide chaos, just by revealing a fragment of himself. How dare he _lie_ for so long to an audience who trusted him.

He steeled himself, and with a hesitant hand, he reached for the button to answer the call.

“Greetings, caller,” he said quietly. “You’re live on the air, and the world is listening. What have you to say?”

“ _Uhhhhh._ ”

Castiel stood up straighter, drawing in a silent breath. No... No, it couldn’t be.

“ _I— I’m, uh. Long-time listener, first-time caller,_ ” Dean said, hesitance hitching his breath. “ _Listen... This ain’t the kinda thing I’m used to announcing outside a private setting – or at all, really, if I’m honest? But..._ ” Another pause. “ _But I... um. I still love you, Cas._ ”

Castiel’s response began as a spark of elevation in the base of his stomach, like he dropped too fast on a ferris wheel, or had been mid-flight when his wings folded in. The spark rose, emerging to the surface of his skin, glowing, luminescent, and completely unseen but for a slow-growing, incredibly happy grin. He breathed out in a huff of delight, tears blanking out his vision.

“Dean,” he said.

“ _Yeah._ ”

Castiel’s mouth trembled, and he laughed to himself, hands pressed to his eyes, wiping away the blurs. “I love you. I... I love you.”

Dean made a breathy noise that sounded undoubtedly... pleased.

After a pause to smile, then another heartbeat, he added, “ _I guess I... I owe you an interview, right? Dean Winchester tells all, live on Hunter Radio? Oh— Angel Radio, I mean._ ”

“You— You want to do that now?”

“ _What better time is there? C’mon, you just painted me like some kinda hero, Cas. Goin’ around calling me a prophet doesn’t do anyone any favours._ ”

“What are you, then? You spoke directly to God, does that not make you a prophet?”

“ _Dude... I basically told the Almighty to suck a dick._ ”

Castiel laughed, he couldn’t help it. “Only you would dare speak to Him like that. Tell me about the experience. How did God contact you?”

Dean let out a long-suffering sigh. “ _Alright. Here goes. Pedestal’s about to be graffitied, bulldozed, and flattened into an ugly pancake. You’ve been warned._ ”

“Okay...”

“ _I... I was off my face on something wacky I ingested, alright? There, I said it._ ”

“Excuse me?” Castiel smiled.

“ _I bought goat’s milk from a street vendor – Sam dared me – and the lady did some kind of voodoo, fuck knows. Next thing I know, I’m struck by lightning, God’s whispering in my ear, I’m buck naked, freezing my ass off halfway up some uncharted peak in Nepal. Goats everywhere. Call me a prophet, call me the chosen one, call me crazy, whatever. But one minute I was in Minnesota, and two days later Sam’s gotta wire me some cash so I can fly back home from Asia. You tell me what happened, ‘cause I don’t freakin’ know._ ”

“You started a war that lasted six years.”

“ _Did I? Or did everyone just find themselves a scapegoat? No goat pun intended. Just ‘cause a few portals opened up the same day— Correlation ain’t causation, Cas. I just drank a weird glass of magic milk and heard voices. Put that in your book._ ”

“I will.”

“ _Maybe take out the swearing, I know a couple kiddos who read your series._ ”

“Oh? What’s their favourite one?”

“ _Dunno about them, but I like the one that reads like journal entries as you travel cross-country._ ”

“You mean ‘ _Monster-Hunter’s Muse: The Great Bigfoot Expedition_ ’.”

“ _Man, I knew you were set on tracking me and my overly tall and hairy brother down, but the lengths you went to..._ ”

Castiel laughed. “Really though. Do you... ever feel guilty? Do you ever think you made the wrong choice?”

Dean sighed thoughtfully. “ _Look._ IF _what I experienced actually made something happen... Big ‘if’, there... I had two choices, Cas. I picked the one that didn’t kill us all. I don’t see it as a choice, I never did. Can’t say I haven’t wondered if blowing out the candle might’ve been better... Given the crap I’ve seen, maybe it would’ve been. But the_ good _I’ve seen, after the fact? It makes it worth it. I promise you – I promise everyone: it’s better to keep fighting. Even when things boil down to two options: yes or no – things can still turn out okay. Give it time. Keep fighting._

“ _Besides that, I dunno how many listeners have ever heard a certain story..._ ”

“Enlighten us,” Castiel invited, kindly.

So Dean did. “ _Look, I gotta preface this by sayin’: I ain’t the religious sort. Until God came and personally grabbed my ankle and shook me upside down for pocket change, I barely spared the big guy a thought in my life. But as the tale goes, Adam and Eve were booted outta Paradise for eating the forbidden fruit. Right? From then on, people had to struggle down here. On Earth. But we’d die, and that was it. End of the line. No afterlife. Then Jesus goes and dies on the cross. Dies ‘for our sins’, as they said in Pastor Jim’s old chapel. But... what Jesus did, supposedly, was sacrifice himself so humans get eternal life after death. Heaven. Hell. That happens because of him. Or, happen_ ed _, I should say._ ”

“Go on, Dean.”

Dean paused to gulp. “ _Day I met God... I reversed that. We die now, all we got to look forward to is a big ol’ nothin’. You hear the name Dean Winchester – that guy ain’t a prophet. If ya think about it, I’m... literally the anti-Christ._ ”

Castiel gave a strained smile. “You’re no false Messiah, Dean.”

“ _But I did undo what JC did. Only upside is..._ ” Dean breathed out. “ _With Paradise gone, and no eternal reward if you spend your life doing good deeds...? All that matters is what you do now. How you live your life now. Whether you leave the planet in a better state than before you got here. That’s our legacy, as human beings. This is all we get. We owe it to ourselves, and to the people who come after us, to make it good._ ”

“It’s interesting you say that,” Castiel mused, “as it mirrors the concept of the afterlife in all major religions. Your status in the afterlife is judged by the deeds you do in this lifetime. This _is_ all we get. Good or bad, you only have your time on Earth to prove yourself. So we ought to... do no harm.”

“ _But take no shit, right?_ ” Dean laughed. “ _Yeah._ ”

“On the subject of taking... crap, I wanted to ask...” Castiel held the back of his microphone stand, steadying his thoughts. “The Kraken is still desecrating our shorelines, stirring up the water. Her presence is monumentally destructive. You, Dean, you stand by your past decision, choosing short-term chaos in the hope that eventually we’ll achieve long-term recovery and peace. Do you think that’s what’s happening here, when so many people stand in support of Krakalackin?”

“ _Oh, hell yes,_ ” Dean said firmly. “ _That old girl’s got awesome power in her. But she’s more important than any of us can know for sure. Maybe you know, Cas. Your fifteen eyes oughta see what’s coming. Someday she and her babies are gonna help us deal with the mistakes our ancestors made. Pull back the waterline. Put the icecaps back where they’re meant to be. But that’s a long way off. In the meantime, we do what we gotta do. Heal the Earth. And heal ourselves, much as I sound like a freakin’ hippie sayin’ it. Even during a war, we rallied together to save this beast. If we can do that, we can join together and fix up the other messes, while we’re at it. Humans. Angels. A veggie werewolf or two. All of us._ ”

“Indeed,” Castiel agreed. “Humanity stands at the foot of a mountain. At the peak is recovery, and we have a long way to go.”

“ _And there’s about eight hundred goats halfway up the path. And their milk tastes like you’re licking one of their backsides._ ”

Castiel scoffed. “I meant the mountain as a metaphor.”

“ _Goats too, man. Those lil’ devils like to stir up trouble._ ”

With a grin, Castiel admitted, “Oh, I see. Yes.”

“ _That all? You... get what you wanted, Cas? Anticlimax of the century, huh._ ”

“Yes.” Castiel felt heat in his cheeks. “I mean— I did get what I wanted, Dean, thank you.”

“ _Awesome._ ”

Eventually Castiel smiled, and said, “Thank you for calling. No doubt I’ll have more questions for you in the future.”

“ _Any time, Cas._ ”

“Any time,” Castiel said. “I’m... gonna... hang up... now.”

“ _Right._ ”

Castiel hesitated, then... hung up.

He breathed out with both hands over his face. He chuckled, then shook his head.

“Listeners, that was Dean Winchester. Perhaps a prophet, perhaps an anti-Christ... Regardless, he’s my friend. My... lover.”

Finally, with confidence, he added: “My future.”

· · · ★ · · ·

_Any time_.

Castiel hadn’t really believed it. It was a pleasantry. Something friendly they said to end the conversation. It was an empty promise for more.

So Castiel was surprised to see his _Call Incoming_ light up once again, the second the show cut to re-runs for the night. He glanced over at Pamela. “Didn’t you mute the phone line? I can’t deal with any more angry yelling people, I need some sleep.”

Pamela sipped at her third coffee and raised a curt eyebrow. “I recognised the number. You’re gonna want to take this one.”

Castiel frowned, but answered the call, pulling his headphones back on. “Hello?”

“ _Hey, it’s me. We’re off the air, right?_ ”

Castiel felt the rush of jubilation return. “Yes. Hello, Dean.”

“ _Thank God._ ”

“You still thank God, after what you went through?” Castiel raised his eyebrows.

“ _It’s an expression, Cas. Who am I supposed to thank, the Great Pumpkin?_ ”

“I... don’t understand that reference.”

Dean chuckled. “ _So, what’s the deal? War’s over, right?_ ”

Castiel sighed, moving to sit on a leather-topped barstool at the side of the room. “I don’t know,” he admitted, looking around for Pamela. She’d left already, taking her coffee with her. “But it’s a start, I think. I’ll be battling calls from anti-angelic hunters for a long time, but that’s the price, I suppose.”

“ _Sucks, huh. You don’t deserve that, man._ ”

“Hm.” Castiel rested his head on the reminder pinboard behind him, gazing up at the copper spotlights above.

“ _Look, Cas, uh... I just— I just wanted to say. Tell me where you are, tell me where you’ll be. Alright? And if I’m ever in town. If the wind blows me your way. If—_ ” Dean swallowed, “ _If your cards or your dreams or whatever tell you it’s time, I’ll be there. I’ll_ be _there, Cas. I wanna see you again. And we can train-hop and fix cars and get naked in the tent to our hearts’ content._ ”

Castiel chuckled along with Dean. “I’m in Kansas now,” he said. “But we’re leaving tomorrow. I’m in danger, Dean. No doubt there’s a price on my head now, in certain circles. I can’t tell you where I am for my own safety. I hope you understand.”

“ _No, no, I do,_ ” Dean said. “ _I do. I can’t say myself. But, uh. Like I said. When the wind blows the right way._ ”

Castiel nodded. “Then. Someday.” He gazed down, lifting his talisman in his palm. “In all my time watching people, your brief mortal lives, there’s one thing I can say about humankind. What’s gained quickly will leave just as fast. Not always, but often. Dean... You met me once. We had something magical for a single night. It could be months... _years_ before we see each other again. Only time will tell whether you’ll still want me, when ‘someday’ comes.”

“ _What’ll it take to prove it?_ ” Dean asked.

With a smile, Castiel repeated, simply, “Well. If you still want me... let me know.”

· · · ★ · · ·

When Angel Radio cut to the night broadcast the following night, the _Call Incoming_ sign lit up. Just like before.

Castiel laughed a dozen times as the hours wore on, and they kept talking. They shared stories and jokes and compliments and advice. Friendly criticism, gentle teasing.

Dean got Cas to jot down a recipe for marshmallows on toast: a favourite of Sam’s growing up. Sam borrowed the motel room phone for a few minutes, telling Castiel about their most recent hunt. Then Dean took it back, and he and Cas talked for another hour.

The call ended when four a.m. arrived for Castiel; Dean checked his clock and said it was two.

“Ah, west coast, then,” Castiel concluded.

“ _Oregon,_ ” Dean grinned. “ _Still tracking some rogue vampires._ ”

Castiel yawned.

“ _I mean, it’s routine, but it ain’t_ that _boring, Cas_.”

“No... No, I’m – aaauhhh... tired.”

“ _Yeeeeah, I know. Get to sleep. I’mma... stay up. Listen to today’s re-runs, I missed ‘_ Bedtime Stories for Little Hunters _’._ ”

“You listen to everything?”

“ _Anything we can, yeah. Me ‘n Sam keep the radio on almost constantly these days._ ”

Castiel smiled, warmed inside. He snuggled up on his tatty old couch, where he’d been curled for a few hours. “Dean?”

“ _Yeah?_ ”

“If... If you still want me...”

Dean smiled as he finished, “ _I’ll let you know. ‘Night, Cas. Love you._ ”

“Goodnight, Dean. I love you too.”

· · · ★ · · ·

Dean let him know.

He let him know every night. Every night, without fail.

The live broadcast ended, and the call sign lit up. Castiel took the call, and they talked until they had to sleep. No matter how tired they were, they always managed at least half an hour.

No matter which state Dean called from, no matter the timezone. No mattered where Castiel and Pamela were on the road. No matter how patchy the signal, or how early they had to get up the next day. No matter what they were chasing, no matter what was chasing them.

Dean would call from the solar train. Castiel would answer from the back of the van. Dean made calls by satellite that reached Castiel while he was out at sea, checking up on Krakalackin, or the sea turtle Aleta, or a particular kind of endangered seaweed that was used in a lot of spellwork. Castiel even took a call in a hospital, visiting his friend Anna the day she was discharged and sent home.

Charlie wired up a laptop to accept calls, and she and Dean sat together in a shorn field beside a pine forest, ‘67 Chevy Impala jacked up on stilts, Dean underneath. They spoke to Castiel, while Sam leaned against the hood of Charlie’s car, rifling through Castiel’s unpublished manuscript with a red pen in his hand and a highlighter between his teeth. In the distance: an empty field, once a fairground, abandoned as a crisp November came.

No matter the circumstances, they spoke every night.

And every time Castiel asked Dean to let him know—

Dean did.

Every night, for a hundred nights.

A hundred times over.

Dean let him know.

· · · ★ · · ·

“ _Welcome back to Angel Radio. I’m your host, Castiel Novak, and you’re listening to sixty-six point six A.M._

“ _The sun rises on this day of February twenty-eighth, twenty-twenty-eight, and finds the citizens of the United States Republic one day closer to peace. One more... goat, led away from the infinite herd. May we face each day’s problems like the hardworking shepherd._ ”

“ _I’ll begin today with my morning tarot reading, as the cards are calling to me. I like to do this when I’m nervous – my newest book is out later this week. ‘_ Monster-Hunter’s Muse: The New Prophet, and the Collapse of a World Order _’, available in all good bookshops from Friday._

“ _Now, let’s see. I’m shuffling. Trying to clear my mind... I ask the cards, what is in store for me today? What do I need to know?_

“ _This one... I turn over a card— Oh! Oh, how exciting. Listeners, the card I’ve chosen today is the Two of Cups. This is a card detailing relationships... reunions, resurgences. New companionship._

“ _I’ve known this day was coming. Just last night, Dean told me he and I would be in the same state by the morning. He finished his car – solar panels and all. New tires. Fresh paint. He and Sam drove all night. But until I turned this card I couldn’t be sure of the timing... All the visions I’ve seen of he and I, they begin today._

“ _Today..._

“ _Today I travel the last stretch of a mountain path, one I’ve figuratively been climbing since the mighty lizards crushed dirt beneath their weight. I have strived for peace, and triumph is nearing. From where I stand, I see only bigger, goat-infested mountains. But the sun rises behind them. There is... hope. There’s hope for us all._ ”

“ _Later I’ll go out... walking in the snow. It’s snowing here, which is especially rare nowadays. A soft hush fills the air of a silent world. I’m miles from anywhere. I’ll stand in the middle of a wide, crumbled dirt road; I see only a stretch of blue before me, a white sky above. My sight is bordered by evergreen trees – all so tall and elegant, like blue queens in their spangled gowns, every branch capped with snow._

“ _The end of the road is faded in mist and white flakes. But I’ll see a figure. Two, in fact._

“ _Though my ability to see souls has diminished since my power drained, a certain one remains exempt. I’ll look ahead, and the mist twinkles with his light. There he is. The most beautiful soul I’ve ever seen._ ”

Dean walked with Sam at his side. He kept his cold hands shoved into his jacket pockets, and Sam did the same. The grit of the frozen road cracked and crunched under their boots; breath hazed from between their lips in clouds.

Searching the long stretch ahead, Dean suddenly felt a twitch at the corner of his lips. “Heh,” he breathed, attention locked on a dark point in the distance. “I see him. I see Cas.” Relief and joy wrapped a blanket of warmth around every inch of his chilled skin.

Sam squinted at the shape, then grinned. He shot Dean an expectant look. “Well?”

Dean raised his eyebrows.

Sam tipped his head encouragingly. “Go on.”

Dean pulled his hands from his pockets, a skip of exhilaration overtaking his heart. Sam meant for him to run ahead. And so, as he had done as a child, Dean did.

“ _He’ll see me. I’ll see his light bobbing as he bounds onward. And the joy will be too much; I fall forward and begin to run. I sprint to him, speeding fast like there’s wings at my back pushing me faster. I breathe hard like the cold isn’t a punch to my lungs every time, like I can’t feel it at all. There’s tears filling my eyes but they fall away in twinkles, freezing into stars as they go. The mist parts far ahead of me, swirling around his shadow._ ”

Castiel let out a cry of elation as the distance between them shortened. He could see the grin on Dean’s face, he could see the way his leather jacket flared at his waist as the rushing air pushed it up.

As he ran, he heard his bootsteps echo back to him, each heavy stride mirrored by Dean’s. Closer. Closer.

Soon he heard Dean’s harsh breath. Saw the shine in his eyes and the jubilation in his downturned smile. Saw his reaching arms. Felt his warmth.

Felt the thump as their hearts connected, arms grasping each other’s shoulders, breath hard, scents mingling, blood in Castiel’s throat. Tears from his eyes. His numb hands gripped so hard that sensation returned to them again; he felt the sleekness of thick, chilled leather beside the softness of Dean’s scalding hot neck. Prickles of stubble scritched against Castiel’s thumb.

With his cheek against Dean’s shoulder, Castiel’s watering eyes peered out, sensing light.

Out his wings stretched, every feather outlined in luminous gold. High they rose, the longest feathers stretching for the trees, catching ruffled snow upon them as the trees were tickled. Dean’s hand took the back of Castiel’s head, stroking forcefully.

Their heads drew back, eyes meeting. Dean wept in his happiness, with tear tracks shining on his pale, winter-weathered cheek. As Castiel felt the warmth of a tear escape his own eye, Dean caught a droplet upon a fingertip.

He grinned, showing Castiel the little star. “Make a wish,” he uttered.

Castiel kissed him.

His wish had already come true.

“ _We go on from there. We’ll travel together. We’ll hunt. As a trio, we will rise as silhouettes upon the crest of our own mountain, hands joined, our faces relieved by the light of dawn. Dean and I will make love in a tent, in a motel room, in the back of a car we’ve claimed for our own. We’ll go... fishing._

“ _This is what we do. We are the wireless; we have no strings attached, and we go where we’re needed. Saving people. Hunting things. The family business. And wherever we go, I will tell our story._

“ _I am not clairvoyant. I am an angel. I see the world as it is, past, present, and future, the way it always is, and will be. And I’ve known for centuries: this is how it goes._

“ _This is Castiel Novak, and you’re listening to Angel Radio, sixty-six-point-six A.M. Stay tuned for more updates, foresight, and as always, good music. Until then... peace be with you, my friends._ ”

**{ the end }**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*radio voice*_ If you loved it... let me know. ♥
> 
> ★ [My other 70 Destiel fics!!](http://archiveofourown.org/users/almaasi/works/)  
> ★ [My tumblr](http://almaasi.tumblr.com/)  
> ★ [Vee’s art masterpost](https://veegiggityillustrations.tumblr.com/post/166264716480/art-masterpost-for-the-wireless-by-almaasi)  
> ★ [Official DCBB fic post (rebloggable!)](http://almaasi.tumblr.com/post/166273816890/deancasbigbang-the-wireless)


End file.
